Carnations

Carnations

Ferris wheel news song
entices the colors of spring;
city sparrows time

fainted rain drops' smell
imbrues season's magic;
equinox fairground

seagulls, carnations'
whispers into a free sky;
folks revolution

April, you give me
anticyclonic prelude;
red throbbing night.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Fuchsine Fingers

Fuchsine Fingers

The creamy curls

under your armpits

are not disgusting

the thwacked joint

of your fuchsine fingers

doesn't frighten

the imbecilities you pray

when ruined by nausea and self confidence

don't even stink a meter away

although your looks

ask for a tartaric thermal retreat

that's OK

but your dismissal as a human activist

at all levels

cuts ears, limbs, sexes

redefines the squares of families,

the landscapes of countries

the notion of love, life,

individual.

Now read this after me

every time some fellow citizen

is killed on

TV.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

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