Afinal A Noite

Afinal, a noite não encerra grandes mistérios

nem vozes oblíquas destapando a dor

entre dedos vorazes

                                em pranto, não

Afinal, tudo isso é um lastro

no fundo de nós, resquícios

do mar salgado a penetrar orifícios

suculentos, de ternuras

imaginadas em mãos desaparecidas

                                 em pranto

Afinal a noite, não desfaz a exactidão do dia

nem na razão inversa da grandeza da sua

escuridão

nem esquecendo  o ímpeto acumulado

em cada rotação ad infinito

nas sílabas do negro espaço

Afinal, a noite

é só uma ausência.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

and then the night

and then the night

like a flower merging with

honeybees

dissolved time's resonance

under her velvet tongue

leaving nothing

other than traces of stars

far behind

memories of our petal-

like dreams

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

3em1

*3em1*

A dreadful peace

   could not define it

here, where dogs bark

      the sound

at the silent night

         embracing memories lost

there’s nothing ahead

            stuck in-between

nothing behind

               vertiginous words

just the promise

                  in a row

of emptiness ebbing

                     attempting to swallow

vacuum’s form

                        present, past, future

into something

                           ominously

unnamed.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Mundo Cão

Mundo Cão

dizem que os artistas

vivem de mãos dadas com os sonhos

como as crianças

sempre de olhos postos no ar -

                                         algumas!

outras, comprometidas

nos olhos alheios

secaram-lhes o azul

do céu, nem mais uma gota

de chuva ou raio de

sol, a fundir corações

(serenas)

de latas tinindo ao vento

numa alegria de mácuas

desfeita pela força do poder

pelo sarcasmo da lua

                  des li zan do

a sua inércia pela noite

incapaz de parar e berrar

ao firmamento

as atrozes e sangrentas proezas

perpetradas,                       porque sim

diluídas em kms de

esquecimento e afável conforto

estúpido

pelo homem, império

na sua breve loucura, conspurcando

em devaneios, arroxeadas

cicatrízes

dizem que os artistas

são génios de alma volátil, seres mais perto de Deus

como as crianças

sempre de azedas na boca -

                                   algumas!

outras, egoistamente usurpadas

jogam às cartas com o diabo.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Real Flat Plasma

Real Flat Plasma

Just the normal teaser, around midnight

the sandy bunch of faces

crawling on my screen {, a real flat plasma

surface}, combining a dual state cellular feeling with

a multi-emotional body fantasy.

Technology has spun digital

[characters]

into a myriad of futilities.

Mapping everything into binary sets can be ominously reducer

but please!, keep

   tasting your finger

   as a sign

   of nested comprehension

   - to the world

   watching you go frenzy while

      no body cares

      the slightest bit

      as long as it's not

      wet?, sticky or jelly at the

   end

until my distillation completes;

in honey – moon.

Maybe we're forgetting men is not tech

                                                     analogy!

At all

apprehension..., a smile, a dizzy face suggesting

                                  love

is a wired 8 bit word

sized to match its ignominious uses

in Chinese, Hindu, English, Russian, Portuguese, French;

I quit

because the teaser is an enduring teeth brush

waiting for my

echo “this”.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

The Nature Of Fear

The nature of fear

Its breath looms the labyrinth of my unthought

Into a web of caramelized emotions

Impregnated, the body circulates

its blood, the vessel leans its hull against

this skinny relation

Condemned to success, it survives

As I take it deep, I feel there’s less room

waiting, to be filled

nevertheless, can’t stand plenitude

so I spill it out

again & again &

again.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Amsterdam’s Time

Amsterdam’s Time

The tulips…
back there were trains
metro stations counting the turn of
pages, pages of nonsense in
plain American pyjamas
walking their stereotype little
music
as universal data boot poles
the size of peanuts;
blond fringes tossing away a
northern sputum accent in three
chapters of a squared
red light compartment
elaborated in mixed scents
cut by sexual entrepreneurship
under translation
and Chinese addiction
and gulasch unix fantasies
rendered upon a notion that

tulips
         are beautiful
and life
               is beautiful
and the queen
                      was beautiful
and we’re all like adorable butterflies
            kissing 
flowers for chicks’ smiles

so I say – orange:
a fake notion consumed
behind windows embracing
the freedom burning
or in parks dressed in green
while dogs eat children and children
run bicycles and bicycles 
under constant re-ownership
communicate their freedom to
people
leaving, walking, drinking, thinking
a way of listening into the process
of creation – fixing art’s desideratum
and its ways, the way she crossed her legs 
while explaining the figures – they should be raised
in conformity with markets – meaning 
report my beautiful décolletté, baby
so we’re all blowing and blowing until
no more air is left inside
for burning 
        -   Please get me out of this room,
        I need a salty ocean right now!
      Pizza  Beer Time out?

There was a street where benches awaited
my solitude drenched in
silence.
There were trees tossing their void
shadow of memories
onto the benches

under a low grey sky, rain bashed softly
against sixty illusions ahead of Lisbon time;

still have a huge hour for replaying
tulips.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Spanish Fountains

Spanish Fountains:
 
Overlapping each other
palpable dreams
my fingers
traced a crinkle
[sucking]
luminosity fondling her
fluffy loquat groins;
shadow strips rubbing
[my tongue]

       A sign points the way out, though I know that’s a fake thing.
       Nobody wants to leave!
       Outside the cold vanishes smiles, anguishes
       trees, cracks memories of us
       bathing naked, your breast breathing the
       surface of our hands, soaked in hot water.

through the shutters, plenty
of light coming
clipped onto our dimmed
bodies
gone by in sugared
lewdness.

, I still look at it, wishing it was true.
The room was square, cozy. The sign blinked if running away with eyes.
There was a view.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Understanding the water

Understanding the water

It's all in the name, they told me after the injury has grown up to the fifth amber floor down this eccentric plexus-like labyrinth.

But the name was empty; and so was the jar where flowers had bedded their liquor in consecutive days of whitened appraisal.

How does it work? how come one stops understanding the water flowing at the surface, touching one's arm, almost a faint caress, talking to you in the voice of ancestors; how come your arm stops being the receptor of disseminated nexus, now, again?

How come the meaning of smell can so easily be remembered even without a trace of the name, I can't think of.

How come I still feel the salt in my mouth, the seaweed rolling through my tongue as I breath in, chew, kiss, swallow?

Or so I thought, that it was [empty], as I saw it soaring, half way between my left heaven and right hand, a lost eddy fighting for no more than a safe place inside.

I told them, we should allow the essence to fill in its name. It shall then grow! And stay,... in peace.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Traditions

Traditions

The grass on your face

your scarf, your hat, flowers:

       that’s not close to my desire

I want the lines in your dance

the loathsome sensuality of your attitude

the ungracious danger you so well defy

I want blood

seeping from your injured flesh

throbbing between two iron strokes

                                                      of my vanity

let me taint it all in orange powder

and throw it back to you as

humble as a grass

leaf

My blood is precious

Yours’ my victory!

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho