Barão Reports –
The Thorp’s Picture
White
& Blue
Dark Scented
A melt of green
cultures.
The moon enters its
crescent
gaining some
allure
as dusk moves in
into a soup of
barnacles
My hand reaches
the ground but
doesn’t
understand anymore
the meaning of grasping.
Breathing is
always a
possibility, said
she, while I stun upon
the evidence that
pudency is a lost
word vanishing
into the deepness
of the sky
Again the promise
of plenitude
gets cast across
the walls
of our visual
memories
she said, I think
maybe
tomorrow we shall
have some
swell for the
booze
And the moon Silhouettes
tracing the lives
of many
somber souls
erases the
apparently
heavens like
land’s nature
off this place
[holding each
other’s hands
we say goodbye]
Worn out by decadence
poverty becomes the
sentiment
behind each
pregnant fig
each dormant
almond
awaiting a hand to
caress its
genetic velvety
opening
And the water
claims for bodies
impressed by the
moon
in crescendo
SWASH
Dissolved in yellow
drinks
happiness flows
easily
into a sea of
unborn love
subsiding to the
core of
its destiny
slowly but firmly
At night
the softness of
her skin and voice
gets my
imagination talking over a new series of drawings [I never made]
hanging on the
wall
How I would love
to be able to describe them
[and you]
in words.
© 2014, José Eduardo
Coelho
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