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

Mugs and Pajamas

Mugs and Pajamas

He was a nice guy. His face was covered with black hair. One could still see his smile and hear him laughing. He sat. Often he got up from his throne. Apparently he didn't do much. He had a mug. The inside was dark brown, just as the great majority of the mugs. The browner the mug the more important the owner. There were rules. Never wash your mug unless it's Friday. At Fridays everyone wore pajamas. Not this guy. He always dressed in jeans.

One Friday, a very sexy lady without a smile told him he had better wear his pajama, just as everybody else did. He refused. He said, Look at my mug! Feel it, scratch it, compare! Her mug was immaculately white. She left and he got up for another coffee, smiling.

Another time, they washed his mug and put a wrapping by his desk, with a note. The nice guy became serious and querulous. For a while he didn't talk or laugh. His face, getting darker. His mug, clean, unused.

Until yesterday. He burst into the room in a one-piece-cotton-cream-pajama that could have been from his father. At the back one could read, Fridays'. The nice guy bought a weekly collection and now he picks up on anyone not wearing one.

© José Coelho, 2015

The Desire

The Desire

A quarter to midnight

(… and warming up) >> remove!

one.

I can feel its smell arriving

I lift the eyelid of my self and

allow me heading for an unknown

area

while observing

its dedication

its movement

heading for the silvery horizon

I move on

hands behind the back

sand-like

but not yet.

The virgins quench them selves

on the left and on the right

glitteringly atop little pieces of hysteria – the color of milk, but cream

far, far away
the sea
with nothing to lose
repeats, desperately
until one inconceivable

exhaustion

I feel, its

odor arriving – water-like

at my

warm

faces

and the virgins loosen them selves and rise spreading light and sand

cloud-like, of so

dense, white

and high

two.

Lightweight

tottering
voracious
I get torn apart by a cry of happiness that I can't
break

three.

Nothing, it was nothing
I say to myself and repeat 

without realizing
the meaning
of nothing

(they were just some virgins
passing by – bewildering me
with their warm tips)

© José Coelho, 2015
Original 1st draft 15-June-2007

Alguns Factos Irrelevantes

Alguns Factos Irrelevantes

A semana está fresca e húmida depois

de uma bastante quente, mas

o tempo anuncia-nos

melhorias lexico-

açoreanas.

A liberdade, tal como a sonhámos, é

uma coisa para a qual só alguns estarão

qualificados.

Duas lágrimas

melosas formam-se na antecâmara dos meus

olhos e vacilam

A música que oiço da rádio continua a dar-me um

imenso, insignificante prazer!

Alguns jornais são tristes mas mais

tristes são as notícias

que trazem

e claro, por último, tenho uns

filhos maravilhosos.

© José Coelho, 2015

The habit of

is an addiction, solely
that I invented as a way to avoid certain

thoughts
I keep repeating short sentences
malnourished
like going to the café
to drink coffee
with no reason, other
than the habit of arriving
and ask for something like
coffee.


The habit of.

© José Coelho, 2015

O Desejo

Um quarto para a meia-noite

(...e aqueço ) >> retirar!

I

Sinto o seu cheiro a chegar

levanto a pálpebra de mim mesmo e

deixo-me rumar em direcção a uma zona desconhecida

enquanto lhe observo

a sua dedicação

o seu movimento

rumo ao horizonte prateado

sigo em frente

mãos atrás das costas

tipo areia

mas ainda não.

As virgens abatem-se

à esquerda e à direita

rutilantes sobre pedacinhos de histeria cor de leite

mas creme

ao longe, muito longe

o mar

sem nada a perder

repete-se, desesperadamente

até uma exaustão

inconcebível

Sinto, o seu

cheiro a chegar - tipo água

às minhas

cálidas

faces

e as virgens soltam-se e sobem espalhando luz e areia

tipo nuvens de tão

densas, brancas

e altas

II

leve

cambaleante

voraz

destrói-me um grito de felicidade que não sei

romper

III

Nada, não era nada

digo para mim mesmo e repito

sem me dar conta

do significado

do nada

(eram só umas virgens

que passavam e me desnortearam

com as suas pontas mornas)

© José Coelho, 2015

Original 1st draft 15-Junho-2007

Trinomial

Trinomial

The sun. The

son nurtures there is

no more waiting

at the window, the sun

burns particles, yellow

dust, spring fine dust

exhaling. Anxiety upon

waiting arrives as soon as

the sun hides. Behind curtains

the son and nearby

walls breathe. The yellow

dust descends

appeasing.

© José Coelho, 2015