Unruled

Unruled

And while the music played

his closed eyes

danced, for as long as

his imagination

ruled

© 2016, José Coelho

Arquétipos de Fuga

Arquétipos de Fuga

O percurso é linear, estamos

numa planície -

pressinto o efeito da altitude -

aliás a julgar pela neve, dir-se-ia

mesmo, num planalto

A máquina avança, lesta

ao encontro do seu destino

Por detrás do vidro duplo, a paisagem

confirma o movimento em tons

de madeira, vermelho-terra,

por vezes lavanda

O horizonte é amplo, a orografia convida

a parar o pensamento, onde

fios metálicos ondulam

por entre as árvores despidas

uma constância de intentos no céu velado

cinza, afigura-se

Poderiamos imaginar que nesse instante

preciso, a humanidade se condensaria em finíssimos

paus de fósforo, invisíveis e que todos juntos

caberiam num dedal; esse

estaria no centro do meu olhar e congregaria

todos os pensamentos, emoções -

arquétipos de fuga - qual

dádiva a partilhar, de todos

para todos

num intervalo sem

fim.

© 2016, José Coelho

Palavra Oca

Palavra Oca

A natureza do desconhecido, provoca

assusta-nos o vermelho

das suas afirmações engolem-nos

vísceras

entre abraços e carícias

deleitamo-nos nas águas densas

desses pequenos infinitos

quentes

Os passáros morrem de amor

enquanto passamos

as mãos tremem e aninham-se

nas suas sombras

Por ti, penso

moldá-las

filtro a luz, sou vitral

agito-me

no teu regaço, bebo

incansável

e certo dia a morte

deixa de ser uma palavra oca

© 2016, José Coelho

Close To 3AM

Close To 3AM

Sadness is a strange

mother fucker -

knocking as smooth as a priest

leaving you emptied

as a burglar

would

© 2016, José Coelho

S/ Título

A pele memoriza o toque
por vezes mais
que o cérebro -
nervuras capilares.

José Coelho, 2016

Adherent Film

Adherent Film

Thin as bubbles'

surface

People are sitting in rows

of chairs

or standing still

by the walls and bar

On the rear a table

gets to be the spot

to look at

on occasions

the mind bounces through

the bubbles, swaying fringes of

recent episodes - like

indulging in a sleepless life or

love museums cooling off

by the water – I urge

to take distance

from

Proud as imperial bushes

three women sit by the table

sparrows picking at their

berries

collecting all the rubbish

fixing anecdotal jokes like tears

running down

their cheekbones

ice melting over the floor

fruit and stuff, all juicy

afloat, somewhere

there's a sign -

get lost if you hate me -

so I stay

I feel hungry

and whimsy, I crave

for sex and

kisses

walls thrive between us

as they talk and talk

silently, one by

one

insistently

describing the thickness of their

tongue, the taste of

their words; the sound of plumage

randomly falling

excels

much of everything -

no touching, please

I prefer chaffing and

degusting exotic breakfasts

in bed – feel the blood

delivering food to

cells

while memories come adherent

film free.

© 2016, José Coelho

Thursday Night

Thursday Night

Steps echo through

what appears to be a long

corridor. Wind blows, carrying

an old southern

wet odor. The woman outside

waits, under

the dimmed street light

her contour

assuming different

forms

as I approach

the last lines, I realize words

have become an invitation

to the knowledge

of love

and feathers keep falling

from desert trees, resting

their wit

in slopes of sand -

steep moving

sand

Now closer

she bends over

her own shadow, picking

something

from the ground – maybe

foliage leaf

maybe a letter -

at the center of the corridor

the sky is a huge

black vault

speckled in pure

white

and we

are so tiny.

© 2016, José Coelho