Rescue

*Rescue*
Like watching butter slide down
a warm piece of bread
just before the act of
tasting
and your fingers rummaging
through its crust and
infinite crumb of
zest-memories;
(Shall I name it?!)
ahead an ocean of fireflies
twisting your voice into
French, Italian, Slavic,... vanilla
scented pages of the
book
you're not reading
but keeps assaulting your
inner mappings of
emotions
stolen from the moments
you dug your hands into
the ground
and slowly allowed the humid
terra-cotta
to pot your soul
and then you vanished
again
into the deepest of your
named name
like begging for
one last
rescue.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

This Land II

This Land II

trees

the ones ready to

burn

they grow scary

unwillingly

absorbing the earth

and the sun

men

have lost their

land

their faith

exchanged for credits

in idleness

the beatific solitude between

men and trees

is lost for daemons

men

why set your trees to burn?

Ignobility!

© 2014, JC

This Land I

This Land I

is under implosion

distilled, no air con

volvo passes by

slows down

honking

Jade chews

leaning

against the tree

EN1, km 269

continuous line

rouge

looks like

a scathing place

for an easy drive!

© 2014, JC

An answer to a question never raised

An answer to a question never raised:

we

the men

the sailors

the Portuguese

we the readers of your dermal lacework

the ready pinschers, the sad Oh liars

deny the sins

dip petals

sugared

they

in

between

rubbed sandy creeks

tangerine dreams

placebo hands hiding in your underwear

speechless tenderizing penetrations

showered glitters

oh shy vain

sugared

we

JC, 2014

Confessions 2

Confessions 2

It all started with the postman

and his deliverable ideas:

an Eurasian junction

blended in the salt of wisdom

muddy wrinkles as exuberant as

sandal

and a Buddha

suspended from belief

meditating through my self

or neck, erroneously

balancing its serenity at

Sunday bollywood matinees

parched behind the big black screen

watching tigers evaporate tigers, elephants

loving women in their beautiful cholis

naked bellies and saris

of course there was my choice

before

[the postman never knew] my father

when I took the tram

when I stood by the basilica

when I sat hours listening

to terrible technical lectures

to the river in a wide disgorgement

to the mercury scale boiling

I was not thinking of him but

he was there with his ideas

absorbing my acts towards this

zest junction

Then the postman never came back

again

he disappeared

the tram, the basilica, the hours

became empty

there was no river, no lectures, no boiling

Traceless, feeble

I freed the tigers, the elephants, the women

I keep the letters in my life case

José Coelho, 2014

Ningxia

Ningxia...

My desk sucks

organization swept by a farm

in Ningxia the sun

                  fearless engine

is off for the night

peasants' shift redfully laid down

dig for their bloom

                  prescribed

among berries cropped

in the late of summer days

some rufescent

                  vain bouquets

remain hanging

in self inflicted delight

semen propellers

                  from trees, the birds

approaching

scanning for strategy

pinching

                  squirt delicatessen

the soft peel

of my brain begs for

uv-seed aegis

                  whirling

the remnants of our

global communication system

echo

                  the sound of a pentium

one third

of a full earthly rotation away

from my desk

Ningxia... I can't hear you!

JC, 2014

Iberian Plateau

I confirm that her hands
were real
mapped into mine
sketches of skin
or saliva semantic gulps
palpable tulips
in red through the squeeze
of the moment
I confirm the savoring
of an aged ocean
bathed fingers in the bulb
the bulb uprising she
salty and the gif
the gif we never took
keeps broadcasting
memories across framed eyes
lids, hair, lips
breakfast for two across the Iberian
plateau of
effusiveness -
you should have met me
in Lisbon.
JC, 2014