Libido

prime mover not knowing why to fight the cloud.

Desire misses you, Unknown.

This is another circle around the volcano and womb. I kiss it. I choose to persist through mountainous why? otherwise than truth and freedom and the possible flow of a beginning.

It rains. The tongue says rivers and love rows. The voice keeps rowing without knowing why.

You Desire the dangerous time of the Garden. Now, or someday, I believe one drop of the First Time may save All at once.  

Vertical

Eyes 

climb trees and drink 

from other seven seas 

within your moon. 

The higher the larger the hotter, 

my hours 

off the new island 

where 

everything may spiral 

towards 

the purple idea of flowering 

beyond fear 

Bare chest desiring

You doubt. I desire.

Blue Desire blows White Rocks and bare feet

maybe hearts, mine and thine, yet to beat 

mineral mystery, many horses 

within bare chests

calling doubting revolving atmospheres. 

Kiss this square meter of ours

skin and mist over clay, mine and thine

yet to blossom 

under lips 

touching 

More than Absolute Rays  

Hour_Volcano

O Oceano vence o Pensamento dentro desta pedra, quase cinza, quase mulher, os cabelos... A espuma do Oceano desenha os afetos da chuva sobre os caminhantes. Somos a guitarra da minha mãe que atravessa o rio, com os ventos metálicos da urgência. Onde vamos tão novos? Pertencemos à Arte Elétrica da altitude. Somos os Futuros que dizem: o deserto é uma grande Alegria no corpo vibrante. Acredito em hipóteses de areia na língua, em línguas arenosas. Aquece tanto a tua Teoria na possibilidade do mundo. Acreditas em Outono no mundo original? Como vens beijar o interior do possível? Quando vamos nascer de outra água comum? ...Um poema faz o Evento mais inteiro.

Agora a língua vence o Oceano e os infinitos naufrágios mais do que futuro beijo. 

Adivinho as aves e as conchas onde há Saudade...     

Eros with Jazz

Eros plays warm jazz

with orange waterfall. Or so I hope.

how many hands are on approach from the rainy morning of drums 

your skin comes from a first Tongue of mine

Oriental touch, last night, maybe. going over events and paths, not yet.

the same woman, the same dress, the same posture.

closely, she flows and sings the opposite string of falling.

waiting for the keys where the infinite directions of one wind only

begins

Absolute

blowing

young flesh approaching Hope 

Mulher = Poesia

sobre a Natalidade da Poesia e o Renascimento da Mulher-em-Versos

No princípio, era o espanto. Um animal inquieto, uma vida sem verbo.

Na primeira manhã do mundo e da vida sem verbo, somos o animal inquieto que encontra Algo, em vez de Nada. Acontece um nexo íntimo com ser

E assim começa a estória possíveis dos deuses tácteis, dentro do Espanto de nascer. Imagino os deuses a dizer Poesia sobre o Mundo. E aí o Mundo acontece como Poema que cresce dentro de cada corpo e de cada astro rumo ao Indefinido – táctil? possível?

No princípio, era absolutamente Espanto, o meu verbo sem nome, animal exclamativo e expectante de nexos de sentidos com ondulações de tempo

E o espanto procurava nomes com verbos para dizer a sua ondulação táctil pela exclamação originária. As palavras têm corpo de vento e quando sopram livres podem abrir tão fundo todos os ventos e todos os corpos que não sabemos quanto renascemos em cada palavra

E a vida de uma mulher refaz o Princípio, com suas órbitas de astros e nexos de corpos. Imagino os deuses a dizer Poesia sobre a Mulher 

E a Mulher acontece como Poema que cresce através da ondulação táctil dos nomes e dos verbos que sopram livres na boca do espanto, tão fundo que não sabemos se a Mulher é o Princípio natal do mundo ou o Poema da língua inteira que diz, exclamativa e expectante: Onde a flor da pele? Onde arde, pétala após pétala, a flor da pele? Onde sopra a Origem da Lua Nova? Onde se acende meu útero tão pleno tão vago? Onde dói o moinho do pão, da lágrima, da loucura, do êxtase? Onde toca o Indefinido na Boca? Que significa dizer, beijar, morder o Mundo no meu corpo? Fala a Mulher-em-Versos, desdobrando o corpo e seus nexos de sentido, desdobrando e tecendo a intimidade táctil com o mistério Indefinido de nascer e morrer sempre 

Faz sol e lua e sombra na mesma boca, 

sempre ardendo mais do que verbos

transitory extreme

meanings play. close to alarm. 
leanings play. close to red. 

one precipice clouded by red freedom. 
it could bleed and blossom. daylight. 
one diagonal vein, close to one Omega. 
born from the sudden collapse, all dense intimacy. 

I quit my cure not. ocean drinks deep and large.

another girl abandoning every lake of chance. another world killing itself within your tongue, 
the perspiring question, mouth of red fear. 
very young. 

another young girl becoming the impossible sense. 

I quit my cure not. ocean remains only the gesture where. the furies arrive and paint the memory of refuge within new names. Isles may be us.

I quit my cure not. ocean drinks my projects and voyages. before possible. 

among smoke love your foam, all dense intimacy.

you feed my dangers with lines and arches. 

ego mechanics

ego works like a burning of multiple explosions. bodies explode beyond the loss and the silent panic of excess. time explodes because of a delayed reality. doubt explodes within and against my strivings. desirable denials and other cries and still loaded with potential wildfire. and your mouth traces the waves of hair and sun roaring on approach. the moment reverses the question of flying and falling. our kiss expands the radius of sound-signs toward inner vacuum. openness must discern struggles of many lips traversing voices of skin. the origin believes in many Isles. 

I wish I could believe in extreme verbs and their cliffs calling from within and against. there is a combustion of ideas and animals in this love paralysis. in fact, in flesh, in flock. not flowing from the spring. the whole force becomes not-me. it sounds other than the face of holding the firstness of the first flame        

tongue

what does tongue caress at midday, blind river of violent waiting in the flesh...

we climb many trees of silence, purple oaks, infinite forests, of silences, we climb alone and dance, over and over, first tongue empties the bottom, touches spring,
we wear blue and we orbit, like birds and sun rays, through all possible wounds, unknown doors, like the moon girls within our books and pulses, we love, hence we perspire, waiting for the juice. tongue, nostrils whisper, uprooting the angel of the kiss from the tongue, promising the return to flesh. mine yours, here. why open leans over the sun, beating the drum of future letters beyond vertigo, ascent, newest song with skin within the Arch of Alpha and Omega, loving until

the song flows and turns to lava, fresh lava, fresh tongue kissing until    

Geometria Não-Euclidiana

sofre somente a torção do espaço-tempo 

começa na boca a evidência da intensidade

uma sensação de Teorema da Incompletude Desejante

e da curva assintótica do beijo e da sua elipse noturna

sofre no instante e na duração. a fricção da matéria alucina. 

aquecimento de atmosfera tende para quasi-Infinitum.

Transfinite tenderness

our hands spiralling 

poorer or richer 

vibrant pain

alone

dying for 

future 

flammable 

body of hours 

one

Time & Redemption

...it blossoms without why...
...roses tic-tac and explode...
...this is Time, the Unredeemable...

I love all times 

in one mouth 

kissing here 

burning here 

dilemmas of pasts 

dilemmas of futures 

more than possible 

warm breasts 

perspiring milky ways

overflowing babies

at once all times

desire one mouth

the burning kiss

redemptor sive delyrium (?)

Master Beta

I never saw poorer girls lost within Summer Tales, missing the signs of mine, born in a clamour only, while rebirth plays the part of the dragon serpent from infancy

Drink me, or give me that spring of life where some language lasts and says rose robe nude in the same sentence. I believe in nudity with infinite futures whispering on stage

my hitting the road of senses with lust and perfume, my avoiding the road, my dodging the road and the crossroads where my father, my blood, my mask... share More than my sweet love's flower, my idea of despair touching the face in vain, not kissing, agitated, 
who rocks most? who pursues most? 
  
my becoming Thunder on the seashore, age of skin. I believe in bodies drinking me or giving me that More unknown breaking my next hollow kiss, more lips than flesh, more text than flowers, at exactly this moment, vortex 

Not kissing rocks the hour and questions the hour 
and bites too much
two poems hasting to breastfeed the momentum, not kissing, 
who rocks most? who begins most?

the plot one dilemma two poems 
and if bodies in between claim the denied hour the truth climbs till the skin of furor
furor amoris vox clamantis insomnia

memory maps foretell the force you drink me
rounded with other plot and cosmos you are the book  

Master Alpha

Tell us a story, Alphabet. 

Once upon a time my rage wandered wildly, complicating the world and its octopus of silence. 

My rage had many packs of wolves and kettles of hawks. 

It was a stormy night and desire seated under the text. 

My rage had also many guitars and much more strings. 

It was a stormy night and truth began like hunger for a face.

My rage danced over soft waves laden with that chaos you did not dream of.  

Tell us a story capable of drinking the seven seas, Alphabet

It was a stormy night revolving around the Island and the Firehouse of my impossible loves. Darkness undid my evidence and fell like my first distress, deep down.

Breathing costs much far too much extremes

The end is addicted to sugar and gambling

I am stressing tomorrow my rest

the surface in quest of edges

life displaces gods less drinkable than virgin blood or symbols dying for symbols

you navigate wide temples black swan 

where the map cries out between vacuum Alpha and vacuum Beta

Antarctica connects our staircases without the art of doubting 

before and after spelling

Alphabet leans on me and tells nothing 

but the Great War of Surprises

draining loves from bodies to streams

equations melt in the future chapter of a hurricane

and change my study of genitalia in butterflies

Reverse us a story, Alphabet

Times without Grammar

These are 

times without grammar 

when Life is 

yelling or foaming 

within the compass of unknown 

unknown surface through 

many layers of original waves

These are 

times when 

none one you 

approach closer than my mother 

tongue

and truth begins 

as an angle or an arch or a full 

circle of my skin 

unknown surface 

perspiring towards 

erased and overwritten  

none one you closer than early 

cloud of Intelligence or Madness 

These are times of rain with brief cosmos

Deus = Scriptorium

O Alfabeto vem ao ritmo do nosso Espanto tão vasto quanto Deus, nome do Mistério Inteiro.

O Alfabeto vem pela mão matinal tocar nesta pele tão vasta quanto Deus, nome da Poesia Toda.

O Alfabeto vem com ondas de um mar de espuma contínua sobre a Espiral devastadora dos nexos fabulosos. 

A Espiral de súbito faz estrelas no barro e no ar da boca. Atravessamos o mundo, o magma do Núcleo do Mundo e aprendemos a metamorfose da vida em mulher estremecendo de Sentido.

Amo-Te Aqui, Diagonal e Fractura, que tão fundo desces para o silêncio do símbolo.

O Símbolo invade os pássaros com o amor do amor tão vasto quanto o Alfabeto, nome do Possível Aberto. 

Metamorphosis

the horses trembled before the dark caress of fear

the ways of longing tragically tenderly fiercely

butterflies arise and howl against 

my last ignorance 

you know not 

the forest calling 

within the voice 

calling 

Traumata: Sympathos calls Sympoiesis

1.      Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me, not me, biting too much.

2.      Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: the soft tissue between my skin’s surface and my bones, the unified flesh, is torn, deeply, by an intensive magnitude that disrupts the very system of sensibility and sense. It is too much; a critical upper threshold of affective capacity is crossed, and at once the boundaries of intelligibility are traversed as well. 

No sense makes text, nor fluxion, home of nexus.

The texture is broken, dismembered.

It blows up: discrete qualia and discrete forces, strokes or blasts, within, without, yet unknown to me.

Are these ciphers? Are these scriptures? Are these language events? Or the vehement burning matter, perspiring flesh of my suffering, my suffering myself? Or trembling fingers approaching and avoiding the open wound? Or silence, within without?

3.      Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me, not me: It.

My body does not forget the frozen gestures and postures. My apraxic body can be saved only through touch, as if something in me and not-me were writing on the flesh … and reading on the flesh, placing its fingers on scars that reopen and close again, each time otherwise, meaning other than being, meaning possible worlds, re-membering the dismembered body of mine. 

This is too much: the labor of blind people, writing and reading with their fingers … acts of imagining otherwise than being… through extreme ventures between us, wounded animals of the forest: we are the nexus of possible Alphabet, yet unknown, within, without, far away from absolutes. 

Together, we work this matter, we—sympoiesis, we suffer together, we—sympathos, till the recognition of our uneasy flesh with fever of remembrance and blood so warm on the face, like flashes of absolute red rays of light, within, without, We—anagnorisis, through catastrophes of unlearning my river, till the climax of blindness…

4.      Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me, not me: It dances more than gods and their nudity. The mythos produces what it signifies, within without, we-sympoiesis: the future Alphabet opens my possible flames. It carries the joyful rite of imagining possible gestures, my selves, and their iteration with you: gestures that gather themselves together, gestures that hold and caress and sustain my sufferings with you, my doings with you. 

The Origin gravitates around the gesture where my body becomes capable of dancing.

Post-Scriptum: Be hospitable to bleeding wounds and welcome scars. For they can be angels in disguise. Angels speaking over torn flesh, moving towards language, almost capable of being a dancing body, together. 

Traumata: Laws of Intensity, Outlaws of Flesh

1.   

1. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me, not me: It.

No name names thee. It. It blows up. 

It happens. It encompasses all there is. 

The time-space and all cursive realities stop and become heavier. 

It is full of it. Violence of not-me—on, against, through, me. 

Flesh surrenders and opens up. It bleeds, without flowing. 

It is stuck: there is a blockade at the threshold: liminal volcanoes 

under these open layers of skin. 

I am the closure where it repeats itself, reinforcing its law of intensity, 

its empire of intensity in myself—on me, against me, through me. 

 2. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me, not me: It.

This suffering is without Origin, sheer power of anarchy. 

The organizing force of my aboriginal place and aboriginal cycles vanishes;

 another gravity, unknown to me, operates. On, against, through me. 

It makes unreason, nonsense: the voice and the body implode, 

ground down. 

They plunge into muteness and paralysis. 

Or else they explode like unbounded, raw, high-pitched vowels, 

too far away from language, sheer yelling, without discernible Origin. 

Both muteness and yelling signify too much Fusion:

my remembrance, my dismembrance, and my bodily self-deixis 

without signs: Touch here with your silent saliva. 

Touch and Believe now, forever, in the red matter of this Passion. 

Let silence reign in these works. For articulacy requires the most impossible 

labors through rivers of lava. 

It calls, it cries out for a body capable of mountains and cliffs and vertigos,

converging here, like the fruits of the virgin Womb,

being held and gathered, in perplexed awe, fusing 

nocturnal terror with ecstasies.

3. Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: something in me, not me, biting too much. 

Traumata: Abyss crosses Surface

 Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: 

Something in me, not me: things past. 

Is it my mother or my father? 

Is it one, none, you, me, it? 

I become it. 

And the depth of it surfaces 

and resurfaces. 

Time-space and all cursive realities are stuck, 

summing up, obeying an abnormal geometry. 

I did nothing. It just happened. 

Or else my deeds were not-me, not-actions, 

but passions inflicted by extreme powers. 

Deeds merge with events, powers from outside disjointing, dismembering, disarticulating the body of capable beginnings. 

Me is thus magnitude of sufferings, no longer home of origin. Estrangement and alteration 

happen, abound, rule, without a proper line 

interweaving a sense of 

beginning and a sense of 

ending and a sense of 

flowing 

in between. 

Estrangement and alteration because there is no 

shared sense of navigation whose tempests would be nothing 

but life-expanding, life-nourishing, peripeteias to be named and storied, and eventually celebrated with all brothers, demonstrated to all, reenacted with dance.

Trauma: open wound: torn flesh:

the flesh between skin and bone, torn deep.

Too much. 

What I can bear breaks; 

what I can understand breaks with it.

No sense holds. No thread holds.

The texture comes apart.

Mulher-escritora

A mulher-em-versos:

Prefácio de um Leitor

com metafísica otimista

Acredito que uma mulher-em-versos faz sentido. Tece outro corpo e desenha outra boca, outro som, mais feliz, para a sua voz inquieta, aflita. A mulher-em-versos é uma mulher que conhece todas as emoções trágicas de perder e cair… e ficar só, na perda e na queda. Porém, na manhã em que começa a escrever, logo aprende a cantar e, antes do meio-dia, já se levanta um novo vento livre, libertador, dançando entre as lágrimas antigas das vogais, que sofrem, por vezes, muito entre consoantes.

Acredito que uma mulher-em-versos faz sol. Tece outro chão após indefinida chuva, onde os pés aprendem a sonhar a linguagem que reconcilia o abismo e o amor, multiplicando o timbre eterno de compreender os músculos futuros da melancolia. Dentro do texto, o dia de chuva pára e a dor enorme de vácuo transforma-se em energia Desejante que sente o sabor da passagem entre a fadiga e a força.

Acredito que uma mulher-em-versos renasce. Tece a verdade de ser na verdade de sonhar. Respira melhor do que o Mistério inteiro do tempo. Fala, profética, sem angústia, após incêndios. Apaga o real Absurdo com uma carícia leve sobre os lábios do Não-ser. O Possível triunfa e o Livro faz mulher, obra de arte e corpo vivo com Caos dormindo, compreendido no sal da língua nova…

Acredito que uma mulher-em-versos cura todas as feridas com o bálsamo da sua canção lunar…