Last Transgression

Last Transgression

Tonight, I swear, I will

sin. Not

with my weakish

body, no.

With my heart!

I will unchain its vessels

allow the blood

or whatever fluid they say

runs inside, to spill over

the edge

infecting whoever comes near

with passion

poisoned

fruit

and you, my dear

will open

your mouth

and drink

drink

drink

till the last drip slips

down

your

chin

Then, I will rest

in peace.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

I Wish Sheep

Part I

back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of. back in. out of.

Part II

A few lines were enough
to squid, the tongue groping for more
than just deepness of words
or cheeks, split
the form into laces, make them
dance namelessly, make them
stitch those lines
naked
of any meaning,

the tongue said
- I wish sheep
still came to my meadow, but that's not

in- said the squid

and we all laughed!

Part III

.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot.do.dot

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Study for an Erogenous Poem

*Study for an Erogenous Poem*

How long does it take

from Paris to Hamburg       by train?

How far can hands reach

if not touching   and the tongue

a fleshy device        tasting, licking, swallowing

used to titillate speech – but we don’t, not in

that way -

how deep can it go, peeking into

your mouth?

There is a swift sensation

almost unnoticed, you lean your foot against my scrotum, while [rail] switches

amend the travel

[under] thin fabric

sagittarian breasts reveal the 

size of my friction

Outside, dark silhouettes cut

by wheels

expose their nudity

in gentle simmer &

There is no city, no destiny

the night unfolds along the track

with no fore dawning

in view

I caress your finger tips, arousing soles

you're French is muted to a few moans silenced by

speed

With how many shivers can we reverse

time? Singular, now, I let my hand

scroll your body

surface in search for your name – does it matter?

When I had your aroma

by me, the warmness of your skin

in my hands, the flavor of your tongue, the wetness

of your vagina

bathing my brain

your head rested on my chest

and that was all.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

J'aime Suivre [mon] Coeur

J'aime Suivre [mon] Coeur

O sagrado alimenta-se

da vertigem da ignorância;

há que esmiuçá-lo!

A ignorância cresce

com o conhecimento, tornando-se

porém, menos inebriante

Criamos deuses

à nossa imagem – cruéis, generosos, piedosos, rancorosos

Depois, revestimo-los duma cera brilhante e colocamo-los

num altar, longínquo, inacessível, sagrado

Prostramo-nos diante deles

em sinal de respeito e

adoração

à espera de uma bênção ou

de um sinal benigno – ide, e a partir d'agora sede livres

A liberdade de uns

mete muito medo a outros

e o medo que esta possa afectar a fundação erguida

sobre o pavor de outros

aguça a vontade de

sangue

Sempre

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

J'aime Suivre [mon] Coeur

That, that is sacred

nourishes with ignorance's vertigo;

ought to be scrutinized!

Ignorance grows

with knowledge, becoming

nevertheless, less inebriant

We create gods

after us - cruel, generous, pious, rancorous

Next, we coat them with fulgent wax and put them

on a sacred, recondite, aloof altar

We prostrate our selves

before them

of respect and

worship

in readiness for a blessing or

a benign sign – go, from now on you shall be

free

The freedom of some

scares the bejesus out of the other

and the fear that she could hit the foundation erected

upon other's dread

sharpens the will for

blood

Always.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Letter to my mother

Letter to my mother



Mother,

I know you've been waiting
this letter, made no sense when
you left us, no words could ever undo

healing the gap that grew within
our house had you written
on walls, mirrors, blankets; even
tap water rustled your name

You know, that long night ended
as always, at dawn serenity flood the room
and after one last kiss, I laid on the floor
waiting it was time
to move further.

I'm blessed we
said everything to each other
during your last couple of months, whenever
you'd feel better I would listen to your
blood soothing each cell with peace
and love had us bounded

Our hearts had agreed
and accepted: we
were ready!

And so it seemed, but now
I realize I made you vanish into far
in order to survive
The Absence
clutching the mind – sharp, unpredictable,
irregularly insane.

After all these years, looking back
I regret not having let you
take a part of me as it should, but instead
craving for something new, a new
person was created.

Don't worry though, I'm
used and it's alright!

Mother, one last thing
I hope you and father are together
now and grandma, she was the last.

I promise to keep in touch.
Give them a kiss; for you
Love.

Your son.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

The Problem with Definitions

The Problem with Definitions

Up to some slam?
Download and get ready:

“Poetry
seeks the essence
of language

Language is a collection
of signs
communication is the art
of choosing the right signs, the ones that will produce the same
meaning both in source and
target Poetry questions the use and value
of each sign in
language Removes all language
stereotypes
formulates thoughts with words, before signs

To read
poetry, is to relearn
language
To write
poetry is to forget
language”

Get acquainted with a new app
everyone wants

The Bordello of Signs

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Embarrassing

Embarrassing

(Now)

How can I write any more if
my eye dizzies each time
I come close to pressing the tip
of my finger
against the vermilion of
your nipple

Let's drive to the south
forget all about
daily human nitty-gritty – you say
and lick semi-hard ice cream, all
day long

I used to do it with
the ink of my pen, rubbing the full
length of the naked
paper, until
there was a flow of ideas
propelling
the rest
, then.

Can't do it! Won't work! I need
the sterile fruition of my pentium-made
reality, humming through flesh
and blood, now! – I say.

(Later)

The amount of rubbish left
behind, after each Sunday market
is blown ungraciously into
trees, fields, the sea. No one
cares...
That is annoying and makes me
sad.

Through the opened window
the sound of the neighbor's TV
unleashes a midday breeze of
cruel destiny
                                  snoozed.

How's the writing? – you ask. I
reach for your nipple.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

New Year's Resolutions

New Year's Resolutions

It was a circular area, surrounded by white, beautiful walls. Above, nothing paled the blue sky, whatsoever...

the signs, no signs of you, though I could look beyond those regular abstractions, limiting, almost touching the idea that you could, would be there

you were in fact, there. The noise, the words, the meanings I keep forgetting and then the landscape of you opens inside of me as the noise alights on the space holding the dream I call me

before any reason, the ground subsides slowly or the walls I believed so firmly edified, bind their wings together and reach higher

this white caveat had me locked, but I felt no fear, nothing. Observing the smoothness of the surface, is just what it is, the lack of any rung, just a certainty of no escape...

it's still a circular area. Someone I think it's me is still there, inside. I listen to the noise as it crackles between moments of deafness – maybe I should switch it off.

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho