dreamer

the dream is the dreamer

and pathos and eros embodies full energeia

the dreamer travels and learns the Language of flesh and fire where it all must begin

the dream knows the non-place and the non-body of willing the most dangerous Touch

it all must begin in the organs of dreaming

volcano mouth volcano lake volcano truth

I am dreaming you, the dreamer that senses the Calling.

the hours I love the most devour my longing for

my dying for your island 

your departure to the first adolescence in Chaos of guitars

all the possibles dream the dreamer

eros dreams psyche, the liquid dreamer, I am the full flowing and the full loss overflowing

my logos yells other nomos

Approach and Touch

otherwise the bird perches on your bare arms looking for seeds and waters and winds

this is the right dream in the right dreamer: it all must begin overnight - otherwise nothing flies looking for something to plunge into 

the dreamer tastes non-sense 

off skin burning more suns than birds

and the dream dreams the dreamer

the suffering off the code

it all must be the First Nude and Begin and 

Approach the Zenith    

Natura Naturans

my life embodies diction-and-contra-diction

word for word truth is the journey you love

the only law grows against mathesis universalis

the unique design enjoys ultimate ignorance beyond sciences

ground down in the music you are my rhythm

striking my chords against the melancholy of Eros

nothing remains in the blood but infinity longing for infinity

Invention of Possibles

Mouth of Bodies

touching the elliptical Origin of Poiesis

Love transforms most rivers into Other flowing  

a song in the flesh

my body on the threshold in blossom

climbing to the fruit

and you know how many doubts have perched 

and will perch deeply in the pulp

whenever you come to this forest of string guitars transforming women into perspiration of indefinite perfume, whenever a nude happens on the page, I wish the end of labors and landscapes. 

I know my nouns will spin through the firstness of my wind, more diverse than hearts. Winds cross the library, cross your chest, still insisting to submerge between waves of symbols. 

It must be possible to believe in rivers and in tongues.

from dust to verbs, within dawn, touch 

the infinite dreaming princesses.

Who is the dreamer-in-me that hides my eastern tears?

Who ties my losses as though my doors were the beginning? 

Who speaks before the young nonsense? who thinks of roses and petals of flesh growing and suffering in the ways of my becoming Song?     

Scriptorium-Scriptura

Outro Poeta ou Profeta sai de casa, 

procurando o leito do rio, 

sentindo a dúvida nos pássaros brancos, gaivotas que subiram do mar a contra-corrente, a contra-vento, até tão dentro da solidão que ninguém sabe nunca como seu grito atinge a fala dos enigmas, nem quantos nómadas pertencem aos infinitos planaltos do coração aflito... nem  até onde vão todos os sentidos...

Tudo o que digo existo: digo que acordei e que uma cidade nasceu no meu deserto. Acontece-me exatamente dizer-me o que cai sobre mim. Digo hoje que chove: e serei hoje chuva a cair sobre mim. Tudo o que vem à fala é capaz de deflagrar. Também o que vem ao grito de gaivota acontece-me.

Uns versos anteriores desse outro Poeta ou Profeta tinham já a métrica da dúvida e da errância pela dúvida, cada manhã, com claridade vária...
e era também nos versos que tremia o ritmo quebrado da respiração... também aí aconteciam os pássaros brancos tão longe da ideia de leito onde falamos de contrários dentro dos nexos, leito que acontece no fluxo de possíveis amantes... e uma alcateia de lobos, nocturnos, devora-me a indecisão de outro mundo onde uma melodia vaga poderia interromper a brutalidade do indefinido absoluto. Quero pássaros brancos, ignorantes, se um dia duvidar de tudo no corpo nulo... e à janela vê-se saindo para alimentar a voracidade do dia que não abre o meu silêncio de sílex sem sangrar.

Os pássaros. Tinham subido a contra-vento, aumentando a distância do Oceano materno onde adormecer nas falésias. Era dia de sair para a luz vaga e era dia de não saber, o Poeta ou Profeta não decide nada, sofre tudo, os pássaros diurnos não sabiam se havia ou não havia mais enigma do que manhã. Não estava escrito o romance que pensa até à exaustão. Não é necessário saltar da ponte, mergulhar no rio e interrogar a metáfora das águas com a Última Linguagem.

Onde flui em mim o desejo de recomeçar? Morre, não morre, o desejo sobe à Origem pela fricção com a rocha do leito e, por fim, o desejo escorre talvez por dentro da rocha, como se um segredo mais frágil desaguasse nas árvores da ilha dos náufragos.

os lábios existem nas margens, sinto melhor com um abismo ao fundo, quando os lábios seguem os lobos nos arbustos da montanha. Todos os lobos desfazem a trama e o texto. Acordam múltiplos e uivam afónicos uma atmosfera que inverte a Bio-Grafia. Não sei ler-me, toco somente na sombra inversa de tantas árvores onde talvez a espuma do rio condensa o silêncio confuso. Tudo derrama.
O Poeta ainda não sabe que hoje é sempre o dia de ser devorado pelos lobos brancos, sem nenhum presságio, nenhum sentido subjacente. Somente o múltiplo desejo que desfaz e refaz o corpo como outro mundo possível, um Todo Onde... saltar da ponte, mergulhar no rio, devir grito de Incógnita,
    

Skin: Chaos Alarm

the questioning serpent breathes within the melody: fingers naked into the tongue of sun

kiss this page where we first looked for shelter, unknown word in the mist of the song. kiss the leaves falling from myself. today we are the tree and the garden and the song. I break the bread, nakedly, and the seeds find ground in the scriptures or flames or limbs, where again the dancers bring the beginning.

Poetry is the ground body where we confuse Becoming and Voice. 

Chaos returns into the seeds. I listen to doors and to solitudes, unfinished questioning before time begins.

Call me beyond the edge, where our lips should believe in foam. I love you, my dragon, touching Finisterra into the stream, bathing new eyes, new rays, new airs, where I love your crying out, your groping out, your spinning out. This is dawn returning to the mouth: Chaos alarm in the skin, in the book, or womb, maybe tears in the middle of the purple story, whenever the song implodes, here, from myself.    

Dolores, a.k.a. Lolita

It was written Dolores in gold around her neck. The child was called Lolita, just for the pleasure of colorful and musical vowels. Babies play with sounds and sing best with vowels. Later, at home, she shall be named Lola, and will not answer immediately, taking the time to feel the liquids of her name overflowing somewhere, an unknown river of calling that spirals minutely in her idea of a closed, dense rose. Petals of flesh, pressed, roundly, inside, in tension towards the mouth of other sun. I do not ruminate on my secrets, I sing roses.


She came to believe insistently that Dolores, much sorrow, is the woman, aboriginal, ground down, and overflowing essentially. The only why is a confusion of pain and ecstasy. A woman is an uncertain wound, it opens at dawn and sings. 

If you touch per chance, the possible rage of non-sense over her moonlight, you'd better plunge softly into the fresh body of any abandoned cries by seagulls. There is smoke on the seashore. She floats along, drinking the trembling emotions of faces, regaining the wide wind. We have bodies to float and merge. I love clouds when naked. Possible gestures flash on board against the silence. A nude emerges and blinds my chain of fresh vowels.

Love you is not the Wave where the fire may start up again  

 

Begin without

no name names Thee, my Desire or Fear.

no faith says lightning fully through and over.

I abhor language, my Fusion or Hiatus.

no longer Alphabet on my chest. 

dying for

Sky says nothing but skin beyond blue screams  

one sufferer seduces Eros, the homeless

(your song opens the tension of absence)

lágrima na língua

um 

porquê 

transforma 

o amador na cousa amada

com suas pedras de fogo líquido

com suas lágrimas na língua

é Meia-noite nos lábios

you river mouth

You are the new song and the mouth. Any breast can begin the Alpha, the solitude, the necessity of being and becoming the Verb. Every gesture carries a unique Verb. This tale vibrates otherwise. You should not burn in the shade. But touch instead, nightly uneasy wings, looking for the thirsty clouds, agitated within blindness, climbing this forgetful body. doors open, close, and disagree. bodies flow through birds, infant birds. my river loves you, dark you, from far away, off the coast. islands call volcanoes at dawn. veins observe the silent dawn. suddenly, passion sleeps not, promises the new song, dissolves lips into seeds, waiting for the supreme nude. passion yells more than loss. slow flight from Alpha, confused with Angst, raining heavily over my walls. you, wave and foam, coming and calling, you are the song i love most.   

pedra & interior