Flowers, Debris and Lost Towns

Flowers, Debris and Lost Towns

Walking again on thorny stones, naked 

feet cooling off the desire that bursts 

from the earth beneath; like little butterflies 

sketching hearts 

in the sky

and a sort of imagination setting feathers off 

onto mountain peaks

To you, now, the hand that observes 

yours 

as it slides between my fingers

down to the sides of your

sex. Or maybe us walking 

above water, whereas the realization 

there's no end 

to the distance, left alone the touch

the learning, the living

pops into my mind

As rivers fill, I must secure 

ripe fruit from drowning. Two minutes 

will be enough. To die not

i feed my hunger, holding my breath the closest 

to the memory 

and jump diving into the cold. There 

I search among flowers, debris and lost towns. But 

yours is nowhere to be found

A bird's chanting 

makes its way to the sky. Its sound 

is the trigger that shall mean both 

men and nature's rise

One day. Near.

© 2018, José Coelho

Flowers and Seahorses

*Flowers and Seahorses*

During these days I practice

my thoughts' pleat subject to

technique and pellucid

neglect

typical of twilight zones where

flowers and seahorses

linger, self-absorbed by their own

beauty and undergoing a kind of seduction, they

make the interior of assiduous vulvas

throb

During these days reality hurts in abundance

like watermelons and knives alternating

kisses and caresses still visible on wet

leaves, vegetables grow

from the walls and from the bosom of this earth

memories of when she was good

sprout.

© 2017, José Coelho

Maybe Flowers

*Maybe Flowers*

Objects, apparently

inoculate some neutrality

among people

The simple presence

of a table between strangers

or a glass vase

a glass, a clean, transpicuous, empty glass

Maybe flowers -

flowers mean much more

than the space they

occupy

Their invisible moistened arms

embrace strangers

their color

speaks of composition

their scent

becomes an addiction

Why not the sun

The sun will undress

strangers and make them

think

in liquid blank verse

think

in blind sentences

or even melt

the bodies, the objects

Guns are objects, too

Too often found on tables

between strangers

© 2015, José Eduardo Coelho

Flowers

Flowers

sprout from the inside out

their bodies bouncing to the smell

of sex

appeal, in plural, is wider

and stronger;

surviving skills, requested

for the longer

run

flowers, become

the present, in plural

and that is simply a beautiful

truth

we should recognize flowers

from the way

they move their petals

as insects

do.

© José Coelho, 2015

Traditions

Traditions

The grass on your face

your scarf, your hat, flowers:

       that’s not close to my desire

I want the lines in your dance

the loathsome sensuality of your attitude

the ungracious danger you so well defy

I want blood

seeping from your injured flesh

throbbing between two iron strokes

                                                      of my vanity

let me taint it all in orange powder

and throw it back to you as

humble as a grass

leaf

My blood is precious

Yours’ my victory!

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho