Intermittence of (or unfinished thought)

Intermittence of

(or unfinished thought)

The weather changed. How

I hate those twists

Snails approach with

numbness, leaving a trail

for the next season

a wet spot on the wall

allows me to know the rain

has been falling

for a while, I hear it

scrolling through

the gutter

and believe

intermittence is a word

describing much, as

rain

snails

and feelings

The line of thought

suddenly

as a telephone signal

breaks

I wanted to tell someone

about the snails

but

I'm left

alone

with their silent

image crossing my mind

slowly

and they are

increasingly.

© José Coelho, 2015

A Stroll to the Beach

A Stroll to the Beach

Today, we took a stroll to the beach

It´s incredible

how it always looks

the same

in a way, but not quite

First there´s the drive

and the radio

then we walk for about

20 min through old musk

dunes

covered with pine trees

(birds stained silence

diverting

time)

Just before reaching the last crest

you draw the landscape

ahead

in anticipation as if to

make sure nothing

goes wrong

“The big waves

warm, salted, they seduce me

and the wind whispers a constant

present throughout space. The blue sky

hits the sand, the sand

receives the waves in her large maternal

womb

and the sea all unites.”

The fact is

the water was damn cold

the wind was blowing too hard

the sand kept chiseling lines

and the sun

an ultra violet torrent

bashing over

our skins.

Poetry...

© José Coelho, 2015

The Decicion

The Decision

A symbolic life

of things, from opened envelopes

letters of outstanding lines

or countless windows

where huddled covert maidens

pretend to read -

were they something real

and I would speak -

diction framing my roots

of original

love and hate

of original allure and discontent

of so many original dingus

enough to kill

paths & corners

blocking

their

original dream-idea

opposed

But I refuse all this -

simply lack of interest!

© José Coelho, 2015

untitled I

A car drove by

We kept walking

blurred destiny

© José Coelho, 2015

The Match II

The Match II

Rewinding it

once, twice

I understand the place of

each arm

the meaning of

each leg or the size of

each finger or

move

The failure -

a granitic structure of

indefinite form

weights

waiting

upon improvement

Rewinding it, I

heed the faces of those

watching

their utterance

preempt the room with

inorganic

silences -

their sense of

easiness and direction

delude

fair play.

© José Coelho, 2015

The Match

The Match

adrenaline takes over

for awhile

I look down

and the only thing

that matters

is the tiny white

feather splinter

nestling against the floor

winning is always

a matter of

speed & discernment

© José Coelho, 2015

The Necklace

The Necklace

The perfect place

to embrace

transitiveness

32 cm length; the size

of her thinness

Pale gray, tender, with a side

effect in

continuum

She likes it tight, though

stifling

at times

The necklace breaks

apart each time she goes mad

or passionate

the influx

of blood too feral

for mild objects

32 cm length; the size

of her exposure

to friction

& renewal.

© José Coelho, 2015

Sleepless Nights

Sleepless Nights

Chaining thoughts

happiness scam

irregular extravaganzas

the fingers, the skin, the chest
unduly trying to grasp
the edges of body

In silence the night
ignores

we need to exercise the left

the right. Take different approaches

Improve our sight. The inner

sight will take advantage of enriched

stimulus.

© José Coelho, 2015

Basic Need

Basic Need

People need to sleep. Houses can stay
awaken longer. Cause they forget more
easily. We sleep so we are able to
forget the weight of things we
are made of. For some seconds only
values, relations, objects
get all fuzzy, distorted they
mingle and melt into each other
developing new properties. Then
we're in.

I personally enjoy, feeling
the discrete weight of a book
on my forehead, before my virtual
structures start blurring. The smell
is also important. Not to mention
the content, the story or the
picture we make of it. Without
one, it gets gruelling.

Houses can stay slumbering
for ages. I once lived in one such
house. Boredom reigned, indifference
was a perpetual state of
mind, focused on nothing
I dwelt in time. In fact
I'm not sure anymore if I'm
still in.


© José Coelho, 2015

Voice

Voice

Unknown

timbre

bundled

Aging skin recording

midriff

reveries

there

Meltwaters gather

their crystal memories

and listen

insulted

Tors

huge as mountain's

innards

roar

then

with all her strength she

screams

to the sky

© José Coelho, 2015

A Question of Identity

A Question of Identity

-One

Interesting to face, the question

of identity, do you

know

who you are

before falling

a sleep, are you

the same building, vessel

iceberg

adrift, in your own sea

as

Just before

dying

will you be sure or even care about

your identity

//Maybe

//not

-Two

Mirrors

give you an image

They differ, but

not much

People are odd

mirrors

-Three

Does your id begin

shaping by a visual or by an emotional

collection of states you attach to

and get used to feel

When it's dark, our sense of smell atones for guidance, augmenting

our experience of self

and relation

weights

Are our ids attached to dreams

or anchored on habits

and facts

the ones easily named

like age, height, first and last

name, age, profession, birth date and place

-Four

A – voweled !

Forgive me

I have to leave!

© José Coelho, 2015

Description Method

Description Method

Observe.

A series of planes

describing a meridional rotation

around one axle

a sunset

somehow visible across

the moving planes

maybe the surface

meets the eye, tenderly focusing

on the horizon

oil layer upon layer; there is

a pastel texture

calling on

the gentle touch

color shifts with light

The painting.

© José Coelho, 2015

The Caravel

The Caravel

Viewing angle:

a brown ceramic cat

resembling a dog. The glass horse

we never

brought from Murano

and a Latin Caravel

When I was about

ten, in one of those weekend

excursions, I could have done

with my parents

did I buy one fine exemplar

of this sailors

ship

Tailored in filigree's

golden minuteness

its carcass survived long -

enduring journeys

across

bookshelves

cities &

countries

not

without loss

It now rests

fragile

against Camões lyrical

odyssey

Still dreaming.

© José Coelho, 2015

Paradise is Here Now

Paradise is Here Now

Every other year, the plant with the bird's name

flowers

indecent, majestic -

its beauty

paralyzing

An erected yellow

crest

seduces sunbirds - landing

triggers the release

of pollen

onto the bird's feet

Pollination, is a matter

of odds

as always

in nature

chance, prevails above

reason

Synchronization

happens. Without explanation, I mean

the whole population

exhibits its exotic head

at precisely the same year, month, days

They say it's a question of

proximity and I can only relate to

hormonal stuff

but the truth is, they

don't know

just as spring - what

sets it in motion

Every other year

   a paradise

nobody sees

How?

© José Coelho, 2015

The Bed

The Bed

Our balcony's door is open

The whole room's fillings are less

important now

because the wind

is warm and penetrates

the inside, renovating the surface

with new dust -

earthly particles, learning to

survive.

As we do, so efficiently

like now

take the landscape

I stretch one hand and it's gone

the gray wall behind the mountain

the mountain and all its trees

are gone

Only the wind remains

because it's faster and able

to readjust into different

forms, liquid positions responding

to pressure

A warm wind is blowing

and the framed photographs, the books

piled on the floor

the dirty underwear left aside -

nothing is important

The bed is a different matter -

being the one human organ residing outside

the body's conventional border -

it gives birth and death

a hand, extra sweet or bitter

it helps us transcend into

a non verbal language

Up in the mountain

the wind keeps turning the shovels and

an exquisite aesthetic phrase

forms, somewhere

A bed must be as simple and white as possible.

© José Coelho, 2015

Measurement Tools

Measurement Tools

Which are the best tools for taking measures?

Her waist is thinner

when I have my hands on it -

my hands are a tool

for caressing, for pressing, for mapping my understanding

of her waist.

At dawn, my eyes can trace the contour of her ankles

up to the ribs.

They too, are tools of measurement.

Once I spent hours holding a stranger's

hand. And we became two and a half.

My heart couldn't arrest the thing slipping

between our bodies, so it grew and shrunk, again and again

swelling as in a vessel.

It felt like crossing the Atlantic.

The heart is a measurement tool as well.

When I write I'm measuring

my thoughts and putting it down, through my fingers -

they
measure the decimals of everything.

© José Coelho, 2015