Dali's Green Pinnacles

At this point I realize how weak is the strength of one's direction. If l say effervescent and pearl, you'll think glass onions. For a while the freezer, cracking the ice. Feet on cooled ground, waiting about wasted ideas. My hands seem dirt, though they're not. Old tree mastering new words, reads them and cries. I'm thirsty, so I climb and pluck, softly. People arrive as dreams floating in the sea. They feel happy for a time. Short and narrow. The fruit is sweet, sappy, intense. Its colored evidence tinges earth and fingers rise above the skyline. This is not a mere coincidence, but the fairy tale house is spot on me. Birds keep flying above the green pinnacles of Dali. People start sadly leaving. Emptied hands, blinded hearts.

© 2017, José Coelho

Not Enough

*Not Enough*

It's not enough to be

a bird must know freedom

as well as red, orange, yellow

seaweed collecting uncertainties

dripping from the sky

may death be its listener

and we, rivers

thinning out until sparsely visible

parts meet the ocean

only to become their collective zeal;

but it's not

enough to be a bird and die 

without knowing.

© 2017, José Coelho

Prolongar e Moldar

Prolongar e Moldar

De uma vigília inútil

a ideia

ante uma longura contida

desperto

num saber de caminhos

confluentes

e uma brandura é

sacudida

a cada segundo nesse su-sudoeste

os ventos

prolongam e moldam o querer ao ser

subliminarmente

porque tudo é

sem o querer ou

saber

© 2017, José Coelho

Ideias numa Cidade

Ideias numa Cidade

Pelas 18:00 a tarde é um discreto bulício

um ir e vir estudantil

filtram-se olhares pelas frestas dos estores

há uma azáfama de pássaros a entender

as horas, como se

crias e ninhos

Da loja de discos à tabacaria

num roteiro de conchas, búzios, cavalos marinhos

mini pipas recheadas, anzóis e 
um ou outro sol, aprende-se

Por vezes as pessoas

adormecem e nem os passos se encontram

Tudo assenta num fétido e matricial

leito escuro

De esquinas palpáveis, conhecedoras

dos tacões e vozes de quem as

vira, saem

vizinhas aprumadas

Nos escaparates alinham-se revistas

estrangeiras de olhar disperso, impúdicamente

amaciam a pele e o rosto

O cheiro a borracha Sanjo

À passagem pelos arcos define-se

o momento do medo

ou do suculento ódio por tudo

Aí, engraxadores dedicados

todos escovas e pomadas

num hábito de senhores

e pedantes

exercem

a espera polida e sempre

o pano

sebáceo

na mão a graxa negra

e o odor ao vício

Do outro lado, homens

encostados à parede

melenas alinhadas numa réplica de templos

húmidos

de cabeça baixa, por vezes lançando

um olhar curioso ou então

nada

apenas fixados na enorme ventoinha de hélices pesadas, a lembrar 

remos de um tempo

de sal e marés

vazadas

Algumas paredes são

espelhos

dos quais fugimos

É lá que a minha presença se desvanece
Se fosse agora, morria ou

seria meio

mas sendo fraco, obrigo-me.

© 2017, José Coelho

Apenas Ela sabe

Numa mente infinita, qual é

o sentido do espaço

e dos nomes

tiramos significados ou aluímos

caminhos

In an infinite mind, what is

the sense of space

and of names

do we make meanings or subside

paths

© 2017, José Coelho

Temporary Express

Temporary Express

- My sayings are dirt

so you can weep them off

She didn't say much -

what the fuck -

we touched and pressed our hands

softly, first

The landscape was dark

and immense

and the stars vanished

or they had gone wild

temporarily

that, I know

cos when we got cuddled

a glimmer of light kept playing

on her back

© 2017, José Coelho

Knitting Disorders

Knitting Disorders

Isolation

had strengthened his discerning capacities

He began perceiving

the presence of minerals

in the air. Even if scanty

these would trigger physical reactions

unknown to many. Little signs -

the odor of liberated energy, the amount of

saliva under one's tongue, the intensity of sight -

all of them the result of good chemical

cell interaction

Observing the metrics of nature -

twice as strong as stones

and faster, rolling down the cleeves -

certain of solitude

in his safe ground he rested

his reasoning against the humming

shelter of age-hold

trees

During the night came about the surgery

of dreams

and stars, all together

a visceral nebulose

kindling thoughts and definitions –

among these

that of a woman

[ Particularly engaging was the moment she

got her legs split and both parts began

a spinning movement in opposite

directions. She would then

be replaced by a male figure

dressed up in business suit

looking as empty and firm as a castle -

the scene would last

for awhile ]

Being had become a way of listening

not to words but

the sky and trees

the ongoing river underneath

and to the time he believed as part of

the big plan -

and that felt sacredly good

Somehow, all converging into

his chest

in a way he would name:

the flow of possible

presents

And that's how I met him.

© 2017, José Coelho