Spanish Fountains

Spanish Fountains:
 
Overlapping each other
palpable dreams
my fingers
traced a crinkle
[sucking]
luminosity fondling her
fluffy loquat groins;
shadow strips rubbing
[my tongue]

       A sign points the way out, though I know that’s a fake thing.
       Nobody wants to leave!
       Outside the cold vanishes smiles, anguishes
       trees, cracks memories of us
       bathing naked, your breast breathing the
       surface of our hands, soaked in hot water.

through the shutters, plenty
of light coming
clipped onto our dimmed
bodies
gone by in sugared
lewdness.

, I still look at it, wishing it was true.
The room was square, cozy. The sign blinked if running away with eyes.
There was a view.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Understanding the water

Understanding the water

It's all in the name, they told me after the injury has grown up to the fifth amber floor down this eccentric plexus-like labyrinth.

But the name was empty; and so was the jar where flowers had bedded their liquor in consecutive days of whitened appraisal.

How does it work? how come one stops understanding the water flowing at the surface, touching one's arm, almost a faint caress, talking to you in the voice of ancestors; how come your arm stops being the receptor of disseminated nexus, now, again?

How come the meaning of smell can so easily be remembered even without a trace of the name, I can't think of.

How come I still feel the salt in my mouth, the seaweed rolling through my tongue as I breath in, chew, kiss, swallow?

Or so I thought, that it was [empty], as I saw it soaring, half way between my left heaven and right hand, a lost eddy fighting for no more than a safe place inside.

I told them, we should allow the essence to fill in its name. It shall then grow! And stay,... in peace.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

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

A tribute to April Dreams

A tribute to April Dreams

From the bus window whispers of excitement

Entangled light screaming about the news

Fresh throbbing beats as seagulls cheeping

On each corner an awakened friend holding the dream

Born inside the strength of his fellow will

And the radio echoing to the sons of April

Songs written in pastiche colors as daring as April

Soothing the children’s voices, acute in excitement

Our hearts embedding the wild raven sea at our will

Bathing us with a white foam of aching news

The bus it self riding a thought as in a dream

A mad sweet dream bashing crooks, cheeping

At them in pure contempt for their yellow cheeping

Muffling in the carcasses of their fear, wet as April

Can be under an ochre musty sky. And I dream

Eyes wide open, melting kisses of excitement

Laid in the mouth of young soldiers spoiling the news

With love, red unmasked love, dripping - their will

An unrequited requiem of passion that I will

Remember as clear as the seagulls cheeping

In circles above the bus, waiting for departure or news

While I counted arguments and prayed: April

Will you be the reason of my single excitement?

Just hold my hand for a start, and you shall become my dream

One where people can smile in equal and - what a dream!

Raise their arms for speaking at wrong or right will

Embodying an immense carnation, daring no fake excitement

No more gags preventing them from cheeping

No more sad snitches wandering for their prey; Oh April!

Let’s start this bus and move on to Coimbra. But the news

Loiter somewhere in barracks and on the streets. No news

Can blur spring even more than this utopian dream

Let the turmoil begin, then; this bus can’t hold April

From its blossomed destiny. Nothing, nobody will

Straitjacket our freedom to run and sing behind our cheeping

The end of the holy trinity – Futebol, Fátima, Fado is near…Excitement!

Revolution burst the night before upon Captain’s will

That day the bus never left, we remained in college cheeping

Safely kept aside from shotguns but not from overall excitement.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Private Paradise

Private Paradise

Sorry, I'm off for [my private] paradise

the line has been discontinued

with regret, nevertheless the moon keeps

lapping the earth

soothing light's blindness

turning its face around

             us

the gentle axis, a frighten reality

where I, we, you revolve the substance

running inside our bones

that red ocher marrow -

history's yarn

continuously recycled in our body

desperately searching for

purity

         pu ri ty

not the one of heaven's but

the one we find in

flesh,       carnal!

the one

absent of pride, envy, vanity

the one

self nourished

when touching, softly

looking at every

    pore

      ready for

aspersion;

the one that gleams, blooms

     and rots

too

in hands, lips, tongue

teeth

[sorry reader

certain things ought to remain

private

and

my paradise is a

dangerous place for

kibitzers]

But, the line, the conversation

the exotic dialogue,

     the erotic soothing

         the discontinued regret

all blended with earthly aromas, got

me on my knees

[sorry]

so, I'm off, you know where to!

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho

Isabel@1am15

Isabel@1am15

Insuspeitadamente
Segredámos um pouco de
Alma na nossa ideia de
Bebé; esta bebé crescerá
Entre
Laçada!

Innocently we
Spoke a whit of
A soul, hushed into our idea of a
Baby; this baby shall grow for
Ever
Linked!

A.M Reflections

A.M. Reflections

Getting in the way of thinking
of it, of doing it, of just

(being) it,
blazing hundreds of
times we have
been to
that view, that super real
astonishing
view
melting the parallels that
run through your
head, brain, belly

now, then
still trembling on each step
I get to face the
thinking of
the view
I had to devour for
breakfast from
balconies
of your clepsydra eyes, every noon

your naked breasts alluring
the curtains
and the breeze of the singularities,
vain ships declaring ultramarine

promises
dipped into waters
of love
(ebb & flow)
lulled in pine trees,
up rivers,
odalisque type shoes
tapping assertively
every little bit mixed, rolled
and served chilly while
we -

             plural intangible idea,
tasting each others mouth
wander round the park
and its memories
frisky, Latin, curled, spicy
sprout in the way of
thinking,

in the way of properly

getting to think,

of what it really

meant to

be.

© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho