Defining Camp

Camp is not a place
but a momentum to pray
under red flocculated dust.

The color of water - Investigation

The color of water - Investigation

The man behind the counter moves back and forward

Polishing cups, keeping conversation

Cheers, I bounce as

My glass a breeze on a Monday night

Liquid

Evelyn, she was almost a memory

                      The color has nothing to do

When I saw her wavering

                      With

Across that homeless desert

                      The subject

Flaw as a moribund

                      It self

Her dried body beseeching for

                      The value

Liquid water

                      Borrows it.

One last ice cube

                I didn`t ask for

 is about to melt

                but, she came anyway

Solid

                Smiling from behind

Like compact knowledge

                Closing my eyes, hands

Forgotten

               predictable

Above absolute

              Twinkling stars shine

Latitudes

              (this time I agree!)

Lending it`s tender

              Seaweed scent

Blue, to or from

              colors

The sky above.

Gaseous

Stuff boils continuously

               Approaching the surface

Matter evaporates

               Tiny transient particles

Fast and unwittingly

               revolve

Through thermic energy

              In color

Towards ethereal state

              (I still don`t know how!)

Neighbouring  White

               resuming

Manifestations as clouds

               A godzilla

Turning violet-purple-rose-titanium

               Gray.

This is not a colored poem!

This is not a colored poem!

Incolor:

     water has no color.

The Gods must have forgotten

or

it was simply meant

to be so

in order for us to

exercise

our freedom of will

they

purposely

offered us

a transparent three state media

(in powder)

labeled instructions attached

           just add some H2O

           stir frantically

           that's it!

However

fulfilling Gods' sized fate

we were not happy with it!

And this is where

colors

got in the

equation.

Everyone wants to drop a bit

of their imagination

misshaping

reality

but in fact

from painters to

photographers, rail men, poets, hookers, politicians, soldiers and

mothers

they all paint water

with the most wide

spectrum

I've seen.

© 2013, JC

Jelly Lemon Shoes

Jelly Lemon Shoes

Jelly

Night train leaving

central station

as I approach platform

indifferent to

coffee still hot

in my hands

There's nothing to

do at quarter past

midnight

in this iron-cold cathedral

sleeping

but stare at the

pigeons

although

they from their

top hidden cliffs

ignore us

grandiosely

I lean against this

metal post as if

you and me

laying next to

each other

propagating jelly hands

could

be.

Lemon

(Fancies me,

or is it the other way

round?)

A combination of

fruit, taste and color

used vigorously to purify

blood

orchestrating body into

self-defenses

acidly blurred.

Shoes

(you don't need to

wear them

but you do!)

Hidden private identity

inside,

rewarded in mystic

shadow

you can find

keys, tissues, cigarettes, condoms, pens, mobiles

and so much more,

your most careless

membrane

abused for the sake of

integrity.

Jelly Lemon Shoes

Things can mingle

unexpectedly

you call me

it's late

there's noise as if

trains approaching

at some

central station

but you're not

me, you are simply making

indentations

tabular soul scripts to

awake mid-night curiosities.

And there I am

at your central

disposal

my hands skimming

through your

skin

as jelly as

you take off your shoes

and deprived

identity.

© 2013, JC

Season's Rituals

Season's Rituals

Discontinuities of time notched

in between daily human

daemons

.

.

It's a long night

windy and rainy

orange alert

forecast

your face shall be

rescued

from the cold tempest

although

away-far-away

your heart shall be

coaxed

in short, effusive

pleasure

kindling stars

ethereal,

port shall be drunk

running down your

throat

moistening lips

far-aside-far

Those shall I

kiss

promptly in a long wish

I submit

trilled glasses

and funaná

hips

© 2013, JC

Dream Buds

Dream Buds

Before joining me in

bed,

she sent her gustatory

buds,

to check me out.

I recognized her

smell;

she visited me only

at night

while dreaming.

A recurrent transplant

of alien nature,

there she was

flourishing.

We endured in a

long, obscure

conversation

from which I remember

nothing!

But her lips

moving,

fondling.

Outside

fig trees defoliated

under a cold

moonlight;

chicken perched on

their branches

watched,

amazed.

No sound perceptible

disturbed

while I asked her

“are you still in love with that guy?”

She nodded

but her taste was already mine.

© 2013, JC

Chamber of discontent

Her

fingers pressed against

archeologia ad usum

Boys playing

scandalized literature

scratching Orpheu

Annoyed and desperate

she sings a song

a love one

Boys smoke a cigarette

a soft and

Portuguese one

She waits (with fatigue)

enchanted by the view, the odor

exhaling from Watermark

While boys dance

traveling all the way in and out

Tralfamadore

Universe

is a chamber of

discontent!

If only

a house on the sand

could suffice us ...

Oscilação Final (English version)

pear, pearl
luscious jade
milky rain propelling
the grass of my dreams

around soft tip
pearl, pear
naif gazes tilling
bathed jade.

When they come for me in the morning

Here, where I yearn myself to

        the viral limit, substantially

I last my wish in your breast

        flooded in pinkish monosyllables, tip

Here where hands bake

        prayers in anguished poems, (of) others'

while I masticate unbearable lushness

        oblique integrity flowing, in-depth

Here I convey the human gaze

        lunar shaped nostrils, in gasp

borne upon unmeasurable unknown.

Here I lay my dimmed eloquence

        hissed along skin edges, blisssss

drip -fully awaiting

        the blessed angels

When they come for me in the morning.

© 2013, JC

icxis

No shit!
I would call the river,
collector of fine memories
settled along it's shores
polluted!

I would comfort priests with laced
oiled swallows, briefly twittering
Hail Marys in Latin,
their bed befouled
within the sinner's sins
they daily arrest
tenaciously at the
confessional,
an atrocious weight
they devote to carry
on their shoulders,
so God may
forgive
them.

Father,
I've sinned.
No shit!
the river carries on
it's irrelevance becoming
more and more
rosaries of
relevance
as
bed widens
upstream, a far
sight.

Ocean,
so real!
Hope of washing
the delivery of spoiled
souls
with salt and seaweeds
abundantly fed by
influxes

Mater,
forgive us!
We're ready for redemption.

In it's sanctuary
the sea will morn
for the priests,
for the sinners,
half way between
faith and fate,
water and fire
they shall sublimate into
purgatory like
space
awaiting to descend
and preempt the
cycle
or ascend and
become
icxis.

Talks by the butcher's

Talks by the butcher's do get

bloody intellectual

at times.

I am pondering to

become a

vegan

© 2013, JC

Southern Plains (2nd version)

There's an immense feeling of completeness,

overwhelming

while crossing the vastness of

their warm blessing

solitude.

Sunflowers bend over

males cicadas,

shrilling loudly to the skies

while announcing

afar from urban remnants

half peeled cork

hushes and reigns

bulls and eagles feed

mother earth

with cayenne

red excrements

the landscape gags,

it kills

you,

calmly.

Southern plains are an illusion

they imprison your inner most life

in their womb,

viciously,

forever.

Nothing changes around,

besides you and

the dream

you

make of it.

Still

I am the passenger,

the one counting storks at

each telephone mast

as I drive through

unforeseen land,

in love.

Although there's nothing to

understand,

Southern plains leave me

at the verge of

emotional grasp.

© 2013, JC

Southern Plains

There's an immense feeling of completeness,

overwhelming

while crossing the vastness of

their warm blessing

solitude.

Sunflowers bend over

males cicadas,

shrilling loudly to the skies

while announcing

afar from urban remnants

half peeled cork

hushes and reigns

bulls and eagles feed

mother earth

with cayenne

red excrements

the landscape gags,

it kills

you,

slowly.

Southern plains are an illusion

they imprison your inner most life

in their womb,

viciously,

forever.

Nothing changes around

besides you.

Although there's nothing to it,

I don't understand southern plains.

At Sea

At sea

the rock veils

the green white rock

The slowest

and steady motion

in shape, in soul-statements.

At shore

the rock,

the salt stone crystal-

-lizards the wave-capitulation

Crumbles

while delivering the fury,

the foamed rage

of forgotten ubiquitous-gods.

The only difference between rock and sea:

the force that binds them.

Their names

"I dream the dream of many!”
she said a long time ago.

Between 3 and 4
there she is waving;
it's visit time,
eyes at me
staring ashy blues
so perished, so childish.

We sit by the fountain,
secluded
just the two of us,
talking
not much though;
She hums me a song.

I fondle her
bumpy hands,
softly listening to the huge
cork tree
gently swashing,
no news.

She craves on me
the urge
to remember, to say...

I know,
everything is blending
into nothing;
links breaking, messing up
names, people, objects, labels.

(Why do we need them?)

As Sunday bells ring and
I stand up to go,
she sparkles blessed for a
fraction,
whispers to me
their names
          Q...., D...., M......

I smile and say
“they will be here next Sunday!”

Recycling Ideas

Lemon Drop

Adorned time

of emptiness must

fulfill greater

spaces

between colossal rocks

placed among left and right

ventricles

carefully

Slippery Nipple

Sprout

of music muting

spoiled landscape

with

limbic thoughts

Jelly Bean

North & South shifting

echo adherence

a must in steady

progression

skirted by imaginary

cleavage

intangible

Tequilla Shot

The balance fluted

grasps

verbally in

comprehensible

vaginal suits

shouted within

us

Bronx Bomber

Coffee spoon twisting

splashes urgently

searching for a

soft core tumid

place to land

maybe

After Five

Sunday cake promenade

envisioned two

some.

Silence

Under the realm of
existence, silence prevails.
Why do we spoil it?

B.A.D. Portuguese version

De regresso à minha cidade-natal

as ruas mudaram de forma e função,

as árvores estão lá, no mesmo sítio

sombreando as mesmas janelas

através das quais eu costumava deslumbrar-me.

A cidade expandiu-se, alucinantemente

[...isto não é uma mão cheia de vidro, nas mãos de um artesão, numa fábrica em Murano!]

mas.. tive de aceitar as mudanças

forjando a minha percepção interior, adaptando-a a ela.

Ao entrar na Av 25 de Abril

há que pôr os óculos de sol mais fortes

apertar o colete ao máximo

esperando a qualquer momento

que elas rebentem de dentro do teu peito

inflando torax e coração

tal e qual o artesão dando vida (em tempo nenhum)

frágil, esplêndida

ao seu cavalo,

Ouve, eu já chorei uma dúzia de vezes

e voltarei a repetí-las se tiver de (ser),

despertar uma realidade há muito tempo ida

não é uma hóstia derretendo

como se a tivesses deixado pousar dentro da tua boca,

colada à tua língua, embalada em aleluias virgens

numa tarde manhã de domingo

Custa mais do que isso!

Uma sensibilidade aguda não permanece indiferente perante

a decadência dos edifícios, então novos,

os maravilhosamente genuínos padrões,

desenhados na pedra da calçada portuguesa,

levando a imaginação ao rubro de inúmeros passeios citadinos,

o frenesim de rapazes e raparigas entre dois toques de campainha,

a entrar e sair da escola,

as duas livrarias na zona norte da avenida

uma do lado esquerdo, a outra do direito

estilo enciclopédico, prenhes de bafiento conhecimento,

será ainda o mesmo dono?

Não tenho coragem de verificar!

Mas o pior, senão mesmo o melhor, é

quando se chega ao estomago,

situado na secção média algures entre norte e sul

mesmo pegado ao liceu onde eu fiz o secundário e

precisamente em frente à garagem, já desaparecida,

para a qual o meu pai olhava, enquanto fumava os seus cigarros SG filtro

debaixo do alpendre.

Precisamente aí, intocável

encontra-se um prédio, em tudo similar ao nosso de 2ois andares

mesmas portas e portão de ferro, mesmos jardins, mesmas cores

e até incompreensivelmente algumas das mesmas pessoas!

Não houve tijolo que não tivesse envelhecido,

as cores desmaiaram,

tinta caíu,

rachas na parede intensificaram-se

talvez haja agora mais ratazanas

plantas descomunais surgiram

o que eu pensei serem arbustos,

são agora árvores e

a dona Maria dos Gatos encolheu e enrugou um bocadito

A minha familia não está lá.

Habitávamos o R/c dto, o melhor!

Janelas para o sul e o oeste – muito importante!

As vistas eram sempre um desafio de

variações de luz ajustadas pela altura dos estores

subidos a meio, completamente ou descidos

permitindo fazer um retrato detalhado do painel de azulejos

na fachada da casa em frente, do outro lado da rua,

um por de sol inflamado, com uma gaivota voando por cima da cidade,

bem como acompanhar o ondulante devaneio feminino

de e para a escola.

Aos fins de semana

a paz, qual maré alta, invadia o bairro

segura e firmemente

apenas permitindo alguns recuos em ocasiões especiais

como a senhora do bolo doce

a carrinha dos gelados

ou o altifalante do circo

Mas isso era tudo.

Eu não quero lembrar-me,

mas é impossível evitá-lo porque

a necessidade conduz-me ao local

de vez em quando.

É como respirar noutra dimensão!

this is happening NOW!

An empty line pursuing infinity would not account for the feeling

even if it had (one /

/ the) time, speed

I know...

(this is happening NOW!)

you know nothing!

Which makes us

perfect swells sliding

on a yellow / blond room

rolling with

wait ...(

something nice

happened religiously crossing legs

penetrating

iridescence eyes,)...

really?

(back to past)

The less cause, the wider

unpredictable, futuristic movements

will cast away our future,

which maybe …

(blond girl passing by)

passion.

Is not a reason for stopping!