On The Awareness Of The Sky

On the awareness of the sky, dark
as a black angel. As I
lay my head on your skin, eyes
deeply closed
the glimmer of apple stars
the moisture of cinnamon lips

Unfold the taste of rain. Blur
memories off my book. Engage me
into the finest love transfusion
Now

© 2018, José Coelho

This Big Vertigo

This Big Vertigo

It's hard to make out until where

the horizon is

Let us think of that turgid, shapeless thing

penetrating. In us

landscapes of concave breasts, clay

hoisted sails beseeching

far away, the sea

so far, it's just about smell, sometimes

there are names that rise and stand up

hurt, full of pride

between us and the horizon

the big questions

formulated in dreams' matter, slide

warm by the sand without even touching it

and we carefully. Let's think

about the shadows that were synonyms

of light - quasi mass

only -

and about the mountains that often

were born, skimming the sky in gray whirlwinds -

come join us, die as happy as these

stones – one would feel the great

vertigo

hot - pulsating delirium and saddened

ties in the wind -

close, so close it swallowed

the hours, the feeling. Today

it's hard to see it clearly.

© 2018, José Coelho

Apenas a Tua Morte

Odeio a morte dos outros. Reprovo-a
fisicamente. Toda e qualquer tentativa de
entendimento falha perante o colosso da ausência que nunca enterrei.

Habita-me um desejo redondo que me faz morder
a própria carne. Refugo de lembranças
vagueiam-me pelo cérebro - coisas que pensam
por si e fingem ser a sério. Confundem-se,
confundo-me.
Apenas a tua morte me interessa e essa foi-o
Singularmente.

© 2018, José Coelho

Home

It's good to be back home. Unless lost or a place you can't reach. The lemon tree welcomes you with the gift of slow yellow weights. The furniture's cedar odor waking basic definitions, memory cells you turn on. The shades on the floor, the whiteness of ceilings, the corridors leading nowhere because such emptiness exists. At night your face becomes a reality, moon printed, it grounds the sadness of desire. My body sleeps.

© 2018, José Coelho

O observador

O observador. Penetra o olhar, astuto
Divaga numa sensação de rarefacção, melancólico
A carícia daquele casal, no livro, é parecida com a realidade - ela pousa a sua mão na coxa dele. Ele observa-a. Depois engole ligeiramente e aproximando-se, encosta os lábios à sua boca. Lá fora, o tempo. Parece entoar uma ladainha amarela e húmida. Agora as línguas dançam. O observador fecha o livro. Deposita-o na estante e segue
Caminho.

Edgar Was A Bad Story, Thankfully.

Edgar Was A Bad Story, Thankfully.

Coincidence or not. Imagine you open a book, you take the 1st page and before you're done reading it, bam... there's a laboratory building up in your brain, with answers. The ones you've failed to attain for a while now. Maybe given up searching.
And then there's this path of undesirable situations you run into with no obvious reason where you end up killing time in a bookstore and you take the wrong book which leads you into the holy grail.
Breathe, slowly. Take two fingers from your left and right hands, adjusting them to the floor's cold surface. Allow me the rambling but none of us is heading nowhere, so you can just take a deep, slow breath and feel the temperature rising from the ground up to your fingers, skin slightly warming up as bones and nerves relax.
Edgar was a bad story and I shouldn't have forgotten that dinner but that's the way you open your door when someone's knocking and you don't listen.
Moreover there was a huge blue descending upon us.