Isto

Sinto Isto. E perco o carácter escrito de mim. Nunca um gesto basta por mim. Por vezes desejo sofrer apenas para aquecer. O sofrimento ataca o infinito e a linguagem. Beber-te quando afundas as extremidades na terra. Não temo sentir as margens. Sei a fundura que desejas: eis o teu corpo e a minha página

De mulher

Creio nas portas e nas janelas e nas escadas e em toda a inteligência do espaço. O pormenor. O concreto. O cuidado. O afago. Tudo o que o Mistério deseja, mais eu desejo. Os ritos das sensações: creio tudo próprio de mulher.
Inteligência das janelas absolutas sobre histórias de janelas. Tudo de mulher.
Casas com mulheres a nascer a crescer a gerar a fala. Creio tudo de mulher: imagino a fala que abre a absoluta inteligência das janelas sobre as janelas. Imagino a descida ao corpo as histórias de descidas com impulsos de falas e brumas. Tudo de mulher

Não encontro dificuldade em definir-me através de qualquer ausência. sou de mulher. uma espécie de história da inversão do absoluto que vai da janela para a janela pela janela. A história debruça-se como as mulheres da casa sobre a vaga bruma dos impulsos. Fazer nascer o espaço. Sou de mulher como aquela pressa de pôr os olhos os olhos os olhos na tua sensação de descida. Como um símbolo hesitante para nascer, crescer, gerar. A janela absoluta que substitui a porta as escadas a casa. enfim permuta a subida e a descida com a matéria das forças. A diagonal submetida à parábola até à pele mais frágil: amanhã que não passa, mais eu desejo.

Intensities

The city rises. The sun rises. Only the Summer is the supreme reality.

There's no way out from the fire whenever the first birds the very first birds fall from those horses of sun
I wish I could name it my ocean
my intimate ocean and make it obey me as I do with my arms broken or not by the climbing effort to touch the center of your motion
I wish the sun could be like some parts of our bodies with positive fever and inner sense
Take the sun as an arm of mine and of yours and waists of ours supremely windy and much more in love than all future animals. The bodies of ours should be raising the sun without this matter this massive waves of

you can and cannot tell the truth when the skin burns over certain stones

every instant is a different city and summer going on too high already tomorrom I knew in advance you were of the day I was of the night and the realm of flying horses was our veins veins flowing unforgettable sailing unforgettable off the green
veins of ours and horses like positive fever too entangled before the silence could be otherwise. I mean Reality: the Summer otherwise and those horses like those emotions both together open the circles of stones and slopes too naked to resist the sun the unity of its face calling that classical madness upon us blessing like a green god singing the possibility of a city or a garden otherwise in every apartment and pound of human flesh
I can and cannot read your letters your hands your hanwriting I admire my bounds of sense
and the sun was the reality the easiest voice crying for mummy and those breasts otherwise than hunger and thirst
Too much is not enough for my dying for. It's time of waters and cycles. I wish I could be the mouth where a wound of sun begins and blows three times everytime I wish.

you can and cannot refuse these roses. too red and not enough for dying for. instantly.

rotations of nothing. summer in the city. too sunny and not yet the intensities capable of that lightening with which against which your body was the youngest volcanoes.

I wish I could love the city: your Summer raising the suns of your springs.
The place of the body is the horse the very horse

Da fragilidade de Acme

Os duelos de amor conduzem os animais ao deserto trazem pérolas de chuva do reino onde a Rainha faz não chover
Os duelos de amor cercam nas ilhas vulcânicas o princípio circular de todo o século de grandes órbitas pré-matinais
Os ofegantes duelos de amor têm a respiração frágil de Acme, sempre próximo da catástrofe e do fruto
Os duelos de amor preparam o sol mas dependem dessa linha de ar sempre quase a quebrar-se contra o chão as pedras da nudez cegante das Mulheres ou dos Profetas
o ritmo por-onde-o-símbolo lança fogo contra fogo cinza contra cinza
O tacto gera o tempo com a frágil linha de ar de Acme, a proximidade da catástrofe e do fruto. A boca nasce. em ruínas. sob as areias de um certo silêncio ilegível.
A boca põe o espaço. Nesse vértice do ritmo. Desenterrando flores dos frutos da fome dos duelos do amor de Acme, o íntimo dos cimos que quebram o princípio, antes da chuva e da sílaba e do meio-lábio ou meia-noite em que apenas o pressentimento quebra o tempo e o abandono.

Repetition> void and heat transfer

The void says: or rather whispers: zero one zero one one one zeero zeero

Cries muted: Let's go straight ahead
The void climbs the flammes fall and expand
This is the birth of space around one of the centers of mine

Dances like Eros: Z-Eros Z-Eros ones Z-Eeros Z-Eeeros ones ones ones ones Z-Eeeeros

The flammes climb the void falls and expands through the void: one zero zero zero zero one zero

The flammes devoid of zero one expand the birth around one zero of birds
Straight ahead

(Given infinity the most unlikely combinations permutations confusions deflagrations must repeat themselves
it happens often daily before my death in libraries and kisses where I was one one one zeros eros rising G-)

The void in flammes falls
keeps falling from one zero off zeros eros rising G-
till those birds agree to sing eros of ones climbing G-
before my dawn

Libraries and kisses combine the flammes devoid of G-
It happens often nightly before the wells where when why
one zero off zeros off my origins one off
speaks of heat and expansion of touch

PS: I refuse this world. There. Here. Refuse understanding this, that. Unless. Given infinity. A better rhythm of Z-Eros Z-Ones Coming. Burning my wings into yours. In full flight.

PPS: Light speed. Heat transfer of our best liquids through that kiss: zero zone one one one zero. Where birds agree. in void in flammes. off coast our tongues. the gift. giving infinity.

PPPS: it happens daily nightly when the Poem cries before Poetry the absence of flammes climbing expanding the birth of my idea of your skin... one one one zero zeero zeeero one zero one zero one zero one zero one one one zero zero zero -o-

Life as Art

I am co-erecting a new love poem upon an anti-war grammar to solve an ancient anguish
that still pollutes our most exquisite metaphysical beaches

Someone will come here to obey her own necessity. This is written on the barest layers of skin. No skin is superfluous. Listen to your best voices on poetry and trauma. Look at me from above those stairs and explain me the ways in which the growth of forms explode. We happen and happen so extremely... We happen within those metaphors that launch sunflowers from scratch. Extremely you write or not. And you read no longer as though from a detached infinity. As if you believed nothing could change.
And yet your name fuses with a certain tone of voice and a dry page... all over the skin. The complex skin of your sex, for instance: it re-asserts a drastically intense stress on beginnings... Lack of skin conveys a lack of reality, no more, no less.
I revolve around cruel possibilities.

Nothing rests on
potential selves looking for
the terrible sense of a multiple Nude

Moons are called to the poem
My calling and yielding and crawling are many hours of aspiration
My lips ceased to possess the flutes

Time carries more than the extension of Self-Shock
such as a drawing-room and inner arrows of poets against the muted waves of a Nude

The same imagery develops as within the tragedy but closer to the bottom of fire
which is still to come and belongs to the war-poem and to every torse where you encroach your mouch and broken limbs

how pretty a war-poem is in the choice of timed words and legendary onomatopeias

it abandons the quiet post-war tenderness
on questioning why fire is the master
my bare feet shall bleed great contrasts of light

too late a whole night full of letters and lips
the tragic tension is read and written by a self-returning passion

Vapours within the reversal of catastrophes
as crude as the kernel of a kiss on the mouth of a leaping panther

this symbol falls and suffers from stormy bodies
no limit is set to the tragic tension of intoxicated sunshine and landscapes
such as the green fishes on your eyes speaking of a drinkable scream
this symbol opens the exuberant nonsense of a concrete Nude

can I write of infinity as a post-war effect on a potential womb
bodies pass and sign and so tender pass and sign the breast

how pretty the growing estrangement between desire and desire is
Scream... tenderly the same questions... before and after the texts

I love the hiatuses in advanced body-to-body fighting as a last resort for entering these three sides of angst where when why so much tremble for ever in alphabets of paradox and intimacy

this hungering language should have been the bomb or the gesture on the breast
my gesture returning to the last verse where the word breast touches the dilemma
and suddenly the texts put the same abyss before the pines in front of the sea where when why

the rhythm of the branches of your desire will mix our sands

I am more mad than most oceans and I understand your green fishes in myself

let me turn into a flash of beginnings