Os dedos na ferida

Os dedos podem ferir ou sarar o sol frágil dos afectos, dependendo da pressão e do movimento.
Muito cedo, descobrimos uma ferida no centro da nossa montanha, uma ferida que não sara. Mais tarde, compreendemos que não é uma ferida, mas uma passagem e que as passagens não sangram nem cicatrizam.
As passagens mostram o vazio necessário para a explosão das fontes novas.
Coloco, portanto, os dedos na minha ideia inquietante de estar mortalmente ferido e a exactidão do contacto abre o silêncio oceânico que há no centro do corpo e no cimo das nossas montanhas íntimas.

At dawn

At dawn or just before. Exactly when it touches the wings.
The first ray is the right place to dive and breathe. Bodily. From scratch.
My physical awakenings rise too late or too early or too lost in the mist.

open nightly bodies

had I believed... I could have demanded a whole moonlight of rebirth...
had I wished not the great flow of milk and honey... I could have enjoyed the pleasures of the desert... intensely...immensely...
as most prophets I have failed to ascend to the comedy of colorful catastrophes at the heart of the city. Instead I bumped into that gust in the edge of never-more.

Look, there are many empty benches like this one. This - I have just left. abandoned thus. over a certain becoming of light into shades of snow.
For, whenever the slope comes from Summer to Summer, it snows shades of emptiness on skin somewhere...of mine. emptying thus. exhaustingly till those bones of the chest appear in the main text of my studies or currents.
If you wish not the changes, nor their meaning, nor their alphabet, you should have planted other trees... In the meantime I wait for the great mountains. They might arrive from behind my eyes. If not. I smile at the wine and quietly drink enough pages of midnight cellos or trains...Otherwise those unknown horses of ice and flesh come at dawn and make their gods implode...into female rocks of invisible fire...

If I were not

If I were not You.
I could long not crave not hunger not.
I could not drink but sheer cliffs within
and carbonic gas without.
If I were not You, I could have gone nightly. Rather away than towards. And many times the same concept works differently because there is the dynamics of the flesh. And again the grammar escapes when it rains. So, there is the temptation of being not You, of my being not You. If makes riverbeds for temptations. Quite the contrary, though, if I were not the concept what-time-explodes-and-bleeds. Do you breastfeed my early clouds, even if...? You cannot say. Right away, rather than away simply away. As a possibility I look forward to transforming my strength into just a second of wind over you.

Morada e Caminho

Habitar no dorso de cavalos, tigres, andorinhas, luas novas...
Habitar nas órbitas - dos olhos, dos astros, dos seios...
Acordei cedo para ver de frente uma ausência nas pedras do meu chão. Distingo as nuvens da manhã das nuvens da tarde, sobre as minhas dúvidas de emergências e de explosões. Adivinho a hora do sismo na minha respiração insegura. Na iminência sempre. Como quando me vi entre Eros e Nada. Um clarão instantâneo de silêncio, cristal.
Como quando se vai por nenhum caminho para nenhum destino. Um clarão que faz cair os cavalos, os tigres, as andorinhas, as luas novas, no meio do corpo, que se desfaz e refaz, mais jovem e oceânico, entre Beijar e Morrer.

"my water"

What do we mean when we say "we"?
Where do we plunge into when we say "we"?
She believed not. Hand in hand not. With some green dust of leaves and kisses not.
Only her shadow through some veils. Disclosing just one layer of thin air. Opening internal horizons - though. I confess. My aim is to deepen the silence of the youngest gods on contradictions. My chest aches virtually. I am writing the introduction while she harbors rare suns. The rarest suns.
There will be a book of green kisses. Slightly sour and misunderstood.
She had laws. I had not. Only young contradictions. As mechanical as old alarm-clocks. Exploding randomly through her skin. Calling kisses into question. Even the specter of it. Misunderstood. And the weather was nothing but a text with her handwriting. All her signs in it. And the time forces growing like young horses. That's why those blades of grass on her veils were speaking of intrinsic motions. They produce eachother like my dense hours of sand. In front of my windy idea of caressing a magnolia and flying. Beyond the possibility of lifeless mountains. Beyond the dilemma of embarking now or not, of holding my breath or not. The white foam draws in from the chest that was aching. Still to be or not. Whispers.

Daniel e Babilónia

Daniel compreende o deserto. Diz que o coração é a terra mais árida e que o arbusto plantado no quadrado mais árido do coração anuncia a Voz Daquele Que Chama no Deserto, para além do deserto:
"Sei o que é renascer pelas águas."

A poesia com que vivo vem toda de Babilónia.
Acredito que a poesia, que se funde com o meu sangue e com o meu sangrar, é a linguagem dos ventos de deserto. Babilónia é a cidade-cativeiro que fica no peito do deserto. Sei que há muita Babilónia nos músculos do coração. Não sei mais nada de sensível. Falha-me a língua e o corpo todo para atravessar a pedra e tocar-te. A minha noite tem canais para outras noites onde o fogo nunca se acalma nem se resolve. O meu chão fermenta na palma dos pés. A escada do coração sobe segundo o ritmo das luas, enquanto os leões ponderam os seus desejos ardentes de viagem. Gritarei melhor com a boca colada à tua pele. Compreendes por que estudo as estrelas e as vogais?