Defy the Master Grammar

Defy the Master Stories, the Master Grammar Stories, the Master Body Grammar Stories.
Fall and surge without investigating the truth from common places. Truth awaits music...

Implosion at the surface

I am the stories that flow untold. in close touching prospect.
Understanding revolves intensities and strengths, very many, very much.
I wish I could fold this sunset as if. as if it were a future book or a past hand on my perspiring postmythic lives.
I would cover the ruins of your many nightly bodies with my bare orange-yellow-blue lips, the stratified skin of my lips, veiled and unveiled according to the random gusts of wind.
There is nothing tragic in the wind but a possible communion with birds. boiling oxygen. partly in pursuit. partly in fugue.
yet writing this becomes the flesh and blood of this.
who am it? who is i? who goes and connects the forces after all. increasingly as if wounded.
no meaning. no sense. silencio. no applauses. because you sing my factories and fabrics. silencio.
no guarantee whatsoever. satisfaction surrounds the minute muscles.
at the end of the day. the major mechanism leads to the mouth. empty. as of fire. mythical fire. less empty than rocks in quest for a last caress.
touch me before the point from which nothing feels as before. please.
You remained the other riverbank located in the wild region of my unreadable articulations. Nobody can tell the unstoried veins grounded in inflammatory quests for. through. over. till. your remains need you most. so do i. to confort the shades. dense. as of flesh and iron.
A seemingly implicated life opens. please.

aporias

This is an hypothesis to be eventually watered and embraced and overcome.
Love is a vertigo and a flight.
From the bottom of a pathless forest, much sun, much detail, like the minute curves of being. From the angle of after-tomorrow, today can be a crucial route or a broken bridge. Who knows? The arrow and the bow and the arms and the wind and the strength of mine? And the continuous tension of it all, perfectly still, now?

vol

trois nuages intimes. sous mon idée d'un vol. vers. vers indéfini. vers.
en combustion. entre minuit et une heure du matin. l'heure flottante. sous un fleuve sous un lac sous une poitrine. l'heure reflue.
le long d'une femme liquide. les doigts plongés. sous l'ombre de l'oiseau bleu. l'oiseau possible. entre minuit et une heure du matin. un seuil au coeur de. vaciller.
je tremble et pars. vers. sous d'intimes nuages. trois. en combustion. sans racine autre que. ta force liquide. ta descente d'une montagne à venir. de l'autre côté de cette nuit. voltige autour du feu. la bouche de feu. autour de. combien de. ou rien. entre l'infini et l'infini et demi. sans angoisse autre que. la peau. la mienne. déjà brûlure. source de montagne. d'où l'attente gravite. autour d'un centre. vrai comme le sang. je verserai vers ton oiseau à venir. je t'imagine monter et descendre. une nuit de soleils absolus. le long de mon arbre en flammes.

Le Centre du Lac

Mon corps.
Une translation.
Autour du centre.
Repos. Course. Repos.
Désir d'un rythme très vrai.
Entre l'infini et l'infiniment.
Sans m'égarer ni m'épuiser. Gratitude.
Ab-solue.

a porta bate no silêncio

Cada silêncio tem sua porta cada porta seu silêncio.
A porta bate no silêncio e o silêncio bate na porta
na porta em mim ou em ti três vezes
com desejo de imensamente intensamente como sabes.
A madeira da porta é de silêncio
em mim ou em ti do mesmo modo essencialmente.
O teu silêncio à minha porta é outra porta que bate à minha porta
para três vezes fazer e desfazer o corpo que vai do silêncio ao silêncio.
Bater esperar abrir esperar bater abrir.

Each silence its door each door its silence
the door knocks on the silence and the silence knocks on the door
on the door in me or in you three times as you know
the wood of the door is of silence
in me or in you likewise essentially
Your silence at my door is another door knocking on my door
so that three times build and unbuild the body flowing
from silence to silence
knocking waiting opening waiting knocking opening
every life goes around and around the most inventive cycles of counting stars within flesh in flammes as you know or not

A força de ser

Voar

De dentro das aves marinhas

onde nascem os ventos e as rochas

num instante de espuma

onde espero Nada

senão um oceano de cavalos livres

de dentro do sangue

onde as forças

num instante

fazem ventos e rochas

num instante de Nada

onde espero espuma

de dentro de Voar

A era da pele

Tudo arde sobre a pele e a pele sobre tudo.

Quase tudo o que arde cura.

Vou – à superfície de mim – onde nunca fui.

Voltarei por outro caminho.

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...