the Mistery of the broken Nude

Despair is a common dream with and without ecstasy
I have no solution before the pines
The Moon lacks blind passion

Sunshine from poem to poem

the climate of My Self remains cloudy and uncertain
I do not confess

Unbounded sea and madness

O pines
in front of my breasts you should touch my paradox and explode

Can I hold your Infinite Metaphors?

You read my icy mountains
sans merci

The invention of the Burning Body

A scream is more accurate than many bones

Le Livre n'est pas mon Corps

The truth of flesh is a very painful Summer

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