Rescue

*Rescue*
Like watching butter slide down
a warm piece of bread
just before the act of
tasting
and your fingers rummaging
through its crust and
infinite crumb of
zest-memories;
(Shall I name it?!)
ahead an ocean of fireflies
twisting your voice into
French, Italian, Slavic,... vanilla
scented pages of the
book
you're not reading
but keeps assaulting your
inner mappings of
emotions
stolen from the moments
you dug your hands into
the ground
and slowly allowed the humid
terra-cotta
to pot your soul
and then you vanished
again
into the deepest of your
named name
like begging for
one last
rescue.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

This Land II

This Land II

trees

the ones ready to

burn

they grow scary

unwillingly

absorbing the earth

and the sun

men

have lost their

land

their faith

exchanged for credits

in idleness

the beatific solitude between

men and trees

is lost for daemons

men

why set your trees to burn?

Ignobility!

© 2014, JC

This Land I

This Land I

is under implosion

distilled, no air con

volvo passes by

slows down

honking

Jade chews

leaning

against the tree

EN1, km 269

continuous line

rouge

looks like

a scathing place

for an easy drive!

© 2014, JC

An answer to a question never raised

An answer to a question never raised:

we

the men

the sailors

the Portuguese

we the readers of your dermal lacework

the ready pinschers, the sad Oh liars

deny the sins

dip petals

sugared

they

in

between

rubbed sandy creeks

tangerine dreams

placebo hands hiding in your underwear

speechless tenderizing penetrations

showered glitters

oh shy vain

sugared

we

JC, 2014

Confessions 2

Confessions 2

It all started with the postman

and his deliverable ideas:

an Eurasian junction

blended in the salt of wisdom

muddy wrinkles as exuberant as

sandal

and a Buddha

suspended from belief

meditating through my self

or neck, erroneously

balancing its serenity at

Sunday bollywood matinees

parched behind the big black screen

watching tigers evaporate tigers, elephants

loving women in their beautiful cholis

naked bellies and saris

of course there was my choice

before

[the postman never knew] my father

when I took the tram

when I stood by the basilica

when I sat hours listening

to terrible technical lectures

to the river in a wide disgorgement

to the mercury scale boiling

I was not thinking of him but

he was there with his ideas

absorbing my acts towards this

zest junction

Then the postman never came back

again

he disappeared

the tram, the basilica, the hours

became empty

there was no river, no lectures, no boiling

Traceless, feeble

I freed the tigers, the elephants, the women

I keep the letters in my life case

José Coelho, 2014

Ningxia

Ningxia...

My desk sucks

organization swept by a farm

in Ningxia the sun

                  fearless engine

is off for the night

peasants' shift redfully laid down

dig for their bloom

                  prescribed

among berries cropped

in the late of summer days

some rufescent

                  vain bouquets

remain hanging

in self inflicted delight

semen propellers

                  from trees, the birds

approaching

scanning for strategy

pinching

                  squirt delicatessen

the soft peel

of my brain begs for

uv-seed aegis

                  whirling

the remnants of our

global communication system

echo

                  the sound of a pentium

one third

of a full earthly rotation away

from my desk

Ningxia... I can't hear you!

JC, 2014

Iberian Plateau

I confirm that her hands
were real
mapped into mine
sketches of skin
or saliva semantic gulps
palpable tulips
in red through the squeeze
of the moment
I confirm the savoring
of an aged ocean
bathed fingers in the bulb
the bulb uprising she
salty and the gif
the gif we never took
keeps broadcasting
memories across framed eyes
lids, hair, lips
breakfast for two across the Iberian
plateau of
effusiveness -
you should have met me
in Lisbon.
JC, 2014

Hugo

Hugo:

tall, friendly

sharing hearts on this and that

lacks space accuracy

speed coordination

all balanced with

huge will to beat

misfortunes

a source of patience

commitment

able to walk long distances

daily

've been trying to teach him

skilling myself to

overcome this winding task

help him jump the rope

the proper way

one end at each arm

forward rotation, feet up

he's ready to fly

Hugo:

the 2nd chance of Daedalus

born from dreams of feathers and reeds

in a strange new world

                                    unknown

fights to unravel his delicate web of

salvation

destined to perform myths

© 2014, JC

Confessions 1 – a dialogue

Confessions 1 – a dialogue

Am I a writer?

So they asked me if I kept painting, I have no time, neither physical nor mental space, Don't you miss it, well yeah but this was the course of life and although I think of it, it's not as if I have waived it, it's still with me, keeps pouring every day, disguised, wearing the logic of certainties and haziness of language; They looked at me in oddness and I knew it was going to get worst.

Are you a writer now, Indeed... sort of, I sum up instructions on a Turing's machine, lines of code streaming out of my mind, spaghetti like, get evaluated and try passing the test. When they do, you can call me a writer!

© 2014, JC

Reminds Me Of Love

Reminds me of Love

on Mondays

the shadows of scattered

clouds cast above me and the earth

reminds me of love

as I wait

on Tuesdays

the water engine fills the weekly

depot, strange birds cross the skies and

leave freely

as always it

reminds me of love

on Wednesdays

a dark sun strolls over the

horizon, heavy rain drenches the fields, our

skin gets all wet, the grass grows over 5 inches on

behalf of

and surely it

reminds me of love

on Thursdays

I travel, which means walking,

buses, trains, pollution, diversity, fulfillment

of sources, sharing of, enjoyment, nuisance,

achievements [...]

on Fridays

I enter zeppelin mode and fly

in reconnaissance spouting pine trees, rocks,

vineyards, farms, creeks, orchards

with my morning vibes

I'm home. The week has slithered by

and no sweet love to die

on Saturdays

we make love

the one

born along milky valleys

mad-tempered

imbued in the sweetest

of nectars

the one

rolling down black holes

bursting supernovas

banned from paradise

on Sundays

we rest our love

in newspapers and coffee,

toasts with jam, eggs

and orange juice

This routine

reminds me of love

Is this love?

© 2014, JC

The Time Conviction

It's very easy

we come up with

                     concepts

of things we

observe

or that we conclude from

observation

of things

that have a pleasant or

unpleasant

effect on our

daily life

and

                    definitions

that is to say

                    our evolution -

yes we do, like

my grandma, she did

not think of life behind

a screen, social-friendship-community

all in one concepts-as-tools that

we start playing with

for free

but molding brains

ours as the habit

dresses you

as hammers and cement

and guns and bread

they all enkindle physical mental pictures

ours just out of

consequence

stagnation

repetition

                     - our mind's evolution is

taking place

in time

now

as I write this here

expected somewhere else

disrobing my daily figurine

in pristine manner

realizing that somehow along

that line of

evolution

we must have induced

                     the time conviction

as a ubiquitous tool

for mankind and allkind

for past and future

all

I ask my self

was there any time before we

will there still be any

when diluted in time

our existence perishes

in eternity

© 2014, JC

Poesia Vespertina

Penso em poesia

e rendo-me

em malícias

vespertinas tentações

na gota de martini que escorre até

ao meu dedo

adocicam-me a concentração

voraz esqueço

e admoesto os teus contornos impenetráveis

numa frase mais ousada

junto à empregada

limonados os teus seios

refazem-me de ideias líricas, plenas, sincopadas na

degustação manual de beijos ciciados

que sorvo em exagero de ruídos

palhetados nas carícias carnais

de mil e um versículos

mastigados

Penso-me poesia

neste fim de tarde esgotado

em luz de coxas

anguladas

revolto

mecanizo a volúpia e

penso em poesia.

© 2014, JC

Ganas de Substituição

Com ganas de substituição, enredo-me em

longuras, pretéritos

preteridos a favor de futuros

coreolados

entre a corda e o mastro, o caixote e a valeta

vagueiam num redor de horas,

gaivotas

em busca de restos,

loteados os odores de peixe

fresco

dispersam-se em nuvens de fidelidades esmaecidas

Com ganas de loucura

esventro-te

em areias quentes e dóceis, onde me deixo repousar ignobilmente

e queixar-me,

queixo-me até à exactidão do termo mediano desta série menos que ari, menos que geo, apenas métrica.

© 2014, JC

Ais

Abismo torpe
na vertical do teu ser
intrépidos ais

JC 2014

A nossa casa

A nossa casa

é grande mas não tanto

estamos a construir uma mansarda

derivado ao nascimento de mais uma

menina

já somos cinco, dentro

em muito breve vamos crescer, todos

a barriga da minha mulher

vai transferir-se para nós e albergaremos

um pouco da nova criança

Ontem carreguei baldes

de massa

à medida que esta ia

saindo da betoneira e eu a ia vazando

para os baldes, com a pá, vinham-me

memórias daquelas

que nos primeiros instantes não sabemos

de onde

vêm, antigas, quase maternas, pegajosas

num murmúrio imperceptível

iam-me relatando a minha infância na casa do Sobreiro.

© 2014, JC

Introduce me to pure pleasure

Introduce me to pure pleasure

[the wind]

Let's give a moment to observation

nothing being superfluous

it's true we aim at the lot

interacting, fitting goals

                                         ours

though the whole

develops in a subtle refined way

                                         embracing

tunes of unison by universe.

[the wind

whispers half of]

Let's contemplate nature

binding us. Let's allow its magma

to invade and ignite

our inner self disposition of going along with

[the wind

whispers half of

the truth we can inhale]

Let's fuse, unite in the warmth of grass

let's taste it and share

this flow with all the things around us

                        trees, rocks, electric wires, fences,                         paths, garbage, space

all shrinks to

[the wind

whispers half of

the truth we can inhale

the other remains safe within]

a cell where everything soothes in a moment of pure communion. Take it.

[the wind

whispers half of

the truth we can inhale

the other remains safe within

nature]

Are there any words capable

of mirroring

the landscape the brain suggests when

we stop                                             thinking

and just give room for       contemplation

Is there anything else?

© 2014, JC

We Meet Again

We Meet Again

I know

nothing more nothing less

than what you left me yesterday

your aged book of wisdom ends with time

infinites ahead

we meet

again by the old

baroque palace with a sumptuous library

filled with mating calls of peacocks fleeting from

the garden

where I

used to lay books

on the fresh grass of Junes

and longed for you feigning aptness for differentials

even humor

but you

instead of bathing me

with your luscious shadow and kisses

insisted on tasting the bitterness of raw jealousy

swords woman

fierce words

were not you lexically

your heart a red carnation consuming

sunrays to power dialectics into a statement of

beans soup

behind me

all over my head

her steps getting closer... we meet

again by the old baroque palace. this time

for real

© 2014, JC

If I Had My Life

if I had my life

to live over again

would I remember the one

of present days

would I want to

change what I in blindness

ignore

more than I've

willed to amend within the course

of my faulty ways

would I dare to

rescue a drop of iron blood

to save my fettered soul

and let me live

again

© 2014, JC