otherwise than fruits

this forest burns otherwise than fruits.
it happens in crucial veins and roots. my vessel is still unmoored after infinite knots around my nakedness. brute and still like the marble of that instant when Eros kissed Psyche on the mouth. without asking nor answering. the hands on the breasts and the lips on the lips. marble and vapor. the perspiring of the fruits and their burning far from the forest in crucial veins and roots. originating in the text of my uncreated river. you are fragile until your nothing blossoms. spring will also be fragile. how ought I to touch the breasts? with a spark of cosmic fire...

full evasion

desire is a pack of terrible wolves well anchored in my muscles. hungering for flesh.

and their forest is the disquiet body of mine beyond. the stream beyond. where the night becomes a wave of mine. empty sky and bursts of flames descending into ashes through crucial future veins.

my belief of mystery blows fresh clouds against the dilemma that opposes ecstasies to rivers. Let me have a thunderstorm like a distant infancy when the fruits lived together without snakes. they become women who enjoy wandering in the garden. smiling through warm breasts of milk and tears. they smile wawaiting for a different moment of the moon. at the height of fever, trembling, love. the world opens the future veins of the tragedy. and in its paralysis there is a rose pumping blood. a naked rose on a horse in pursuit.

you cannot eat the forest and the wolves and survive. three nights sleeping like a baby or a bull. I saw love denying room to the question I am.

a rose is a rose is a rose without place without bouquet. nothing but the denial and the inclination. night blossoms maybe. I love the shadows of the violent concept of Nothing. you are roses in the cold

no tears for a dead love

no tears for those ways. seldom true. if you cannot confide a landscape of flame. red flame as I climb ash and blood. and silence was the only recognition of my love, half burnt half dispersed. love do not weep for you do not know the truth of it. so seldom must you mourn and cry for the love you expect late. an enormous night arrested between my abondoned clouds.
I must not mourn nor cry for unbodied waves of longing. it is seldom true. this is only earth and clouds of displaced ecstasies. you pass, you disagree, you caress, from blue to red, from red to blue. darker than the Origin when time was a fruit tree. the idea of a baby breathing against the forest. darkness intervenes for two months, while the story speaks of slaves and their tortured flowers. the sigh offers no escape through the lungs of love. you cannot breath these knots of flesh that will be my song of water from the muscles of slaves. you believe in the sword you shall die by the sword. keep dancing and wrecking the green powers of rebirth.
Yesterday the sun struggled with my tongue and my music was lighted by acid lips and wounds... destruction moving through drums and seashells. the feeling of departure flows and comes to me. I almost touched the traveler of my dream full of horses staring a battlefield. they enter like wind, depart like smoke, surrounded by infinite layers of sleep, red of angst, blue of nothing.
the landscape unveils. you come to the forest looking for someone else. and a tree shall explode to avoid a false melody line. you shall remain nameless. I recall the sound of your art of crying and divide the summer and winter. there was a full excess of fragile birds returning home and learning me to breathe again. but this time is finished... all lack a body...

longing for desert

he or she was longing for desert, for the life-defying sun rays, through every bodily tissue as a deadly passion.
he or she would not return. ever. in quest for the desert. there is no absolute encounter. nor fulfilment of the longing. much longing, no fulfilment. the vaster longing, the deeper desert.

One day, in quest for the desert, and without return.

the dream spreads swiftly like a final wildfire. Afterwards, the dream rains heavily like a final deluge.
and the dream dreams the dreamer, through every bodily tissue. my dream is a very primitive animal, with massive jaws looking for primitive flesh.
I cannot scream from within the dream or the animal. the open mouth of the dreamer cannot scream nor yell as a primitive force should do...
you might not care but you do care and your skin burns in quest for the desert, without desert... you have plenty to loose. the more, the more.

ânsias

chegou a uma altura em que sentia tantos sinais dispersos pelo corpo, quase-dores, quase-nadas, impressões febris, energias a contra-corrente, percorrendo músculos e articulações... enfim, receou que morria, sem pânico. Parecia-lhe atraente e acridoce a ideia de morrer jovem, como um pássaro que se apaga em pleno voo. Mas como as forças volviam sempre às linhas habituais, apesar das abundantes quase-dores, quase-nadas, perguntava-se a si mesma se não seria o sentimento do corpo que entrava pelo caos. Ponderava, então, se não estaria antes a perder o nexo dos sentidos e dos vividos, dos atos e dos afetos... se não estaria a enlouquecer... Na verdade, nas horas das transições entre a vigília e o sono, começou a confundir tudo... No seu esforço de auto-interpretação, passou à escrita e ao desenho dessas passagens confusas entre ser e ser e ser e mais. havia muitas vozes indecifráveis que deixavam uma melodia obsessiva e uma atmosfera densa de ânsias...
até que um dia, entre as 7h e as 7.30 da manhã, enquanto acordava e submergia no sono, reviveu, com cenas intensamente seletas, três passagens pelo tecido vibrátil do útero: primeiro, o trabalho de parto do seu próprio nascimento (e sentiu todo o corpo dorido da passagem por um canal), depois, a sua primeira vibração de prazer (e sentiu a quase-perda dos sentidos), por fim, a violência da lenta expulsão uterina do filho único... transpirou muito com as últimas imagens sobrepostas: o extenso contacto pele-a-pele do recém nascido com os seus peitos e a costura fria dos tecidos rasgados ao fundo...
O que significa? não se pode fechar o que vibra. ânsias de útero contra o doloroso natal. porquê nascer em lágrimas?

fresh start

a rose is a rose.
a petal may be a fresh start.
into the river or calling.

desire versus death. now versus never.

a rose is a rose is a rose
before becoming the Day

from dust to dust

kissing cannot one alone

my body is humus and rain worth digging and planting deeply

your wings disclose the fruit and let burn the unfinished touch
till nothing but a bleeding second within
wound on every node of flesh and disgrace