segunda-feira, 30 de dezembro de 2013

domingo, 29 de dezembro de 2013

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.

quinta-feira, 26 de dezembro de 2013

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

segunda-feira, 23 de dezembro de 2013

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

sexta-feira, 20 de dezembro de 2013

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

quinta-feira, 19 de dezembro de 2013

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 ...

quarta-feira, 18 de dezembro de 2013

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.

terça-feira, 17 de dezembro de 2013

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

segunda-feira, 16 de dezembro de 2013

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.

domingo, 15 de dezembro de 2013

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

sexta-feira, 13 de dezembro de 2013

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


quinta-feira, 12 de dezembro de 2013

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.

quarta-feira, 11 de dezembro de 2013

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.

terça-feira, 10 de dezembro de 2013

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!”

domingo, 8 de dezembro de 2013

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?

sábado, 7 de dezembro de 2013

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!

quinta-feira, 5 de dezembro de 2013

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!