hours and horses

one point, line or surface is equal to another point, line or surface. very seldom. there can be no geometrical demonstration for this. hands of mine seizing finite fractions of fractions of waves and waves of yours. from across the dire strait.
hours. the extremest edges. I can find none but the future annihilation of closed circles. I desire it may be produced. the necessary connexion of force and future.

we have so obscure an idea of desire and belief that all the imaginings we can invent are nothing but perishing moons. my bed and papers appear as an hypothesis for near or remote horses. bodies change their position and coherence in the text.
another breast opens. I shall write to develop these cliffs of almost nothing. and explain never. the mountains where. how much. whenever you have called. always the shocks of crystals to me.
passions and affections are houses and trees. the strokes of embodied nothing. where much fresh waters assure us of matter of fact. say fire and pain. upon a close approach.

any interruption in my feeling or bond obtains a silent explosion. the desire to excel in transition from X to X. the unknown extent of the burned substance. the unknown river in our palms touches the cause.

I must confess a labyrinth. I neither propose nor dispose. the whole labyrinth induces me to not spare any horse. the journey possesses the agitated idea of riding. the passage conceals the breast in motion.
Suppose I imagine at present the voice coming from my next extinction into the rays of light. flowing from those tongues of confusion. confining myself to hope and fear. with compass and loss. deeper than the complete machine of inflamable horses

heated things

it is no secret. blood disolves.
in the shade of fragile secrecy.
what is loved perspires. bittersweet.
our mouths need fruit. our mouths are fruits. themselves.
this is language where the breasts appear as breasts. a clearing in the forest.
and the forest appears as forest. bodies read and write this language.
a drop of saliva opens the book. half saliva half humus.

next fall

sensing next fall through imaginary sounds of rain.
sensing in disconcert. from your garden. nearly living.
a place where I can go and cry. against angels.
never warm enough. dark blue light blue.

birds could come. as the one who listens to my moon.
seven times seventy. zero. layers of zero.
never fully explicated.

a room of care

branches of burned skin. almost invisible.
another garden where one gets lost. or not. or maybe.
and a certain mouth still to come. or not. or maybe. and to touch another mouth in need of fruit. before a possible rebirth. or not. or maybe.

the moon was dry. born too early.
breaking the circle or the process of dying.

journey

leave it or burn it up.
many ropes tie doomed things. this book to come. smells like living non-living petals. I used to read it. and letters could talk and flower like children. playing with sorrows as if toys. none is saved from walking together through many layers of dust and flood. beyond and back home. dust years, flood years, layers of skin, that's us. bitterness, sweetness, confused streams of it, that's us. the smell deepens the mattresses and conforts. the pace of confusion increases and drops. abruptly. almost cruel and raw like those unwashed wounds and scars. driving us till the innermost chamber of us. fibers of some day. the innermost fibers on the other side of some day. here's the past crying for horses. children under a strange silence pulling them. forceps of silence. the flesh fights over everything, loves that urge. never told. too far apart. green eyes should flower throwing fire. the whole field is soft skin under night hawks writing on the walls. they know when a house is emptying. when dark green shades hesitate between air and humus.

patient stories

the heart is again a the edge between X and X
or another garden with naked bodies
plunging down until roses and fruits

less burned than Eden
eyes open and close

the muscles of the heart look at each other to start over again
under the fierce sun turning west through red fields of verbs

a well in the desert heated by future wildfires vibrates and steams
bodies over the sands vibrating and steaming

again springs and nerves
along the abandoned verbs

grammar

there is an infinite number of intelligible sentences. within the grammar of Yours.

.the Universe cannot contain it. Meaning overflows. Language blasting vowels. Off the coast.

I aim at rephrasing Me under Your grammar. in order to be intelligible to Myself.


the discomfort of everyday unbirth is deeper than the possibility of Everyday.
Unpure Maths. every body of waves and foam works breathless.
the method of flight. the fury of making. infinite should be as round as a breast of Yours. Beauty and beauty alone.

nada

nada vem nada tanto ferve

ainda

(caminho vazio  nada vai em mim por mim

caminho chão vulcão adormecido pedras rubras

tanto fervem ainda pés nus tanto fervem

ainda)

sinais na pele

alfabeto de areias e de ermos onde o tempo vem ensaiar fracturas

há sinais na pele que esfriam o insubmisso espaço das errâncias

não longe da boca outro litoral de furioso verde absurdo penetrante