one plague alone, thirst

before exactly before

warm again

trembling as though it had been touched by None

I robed the names of the passions and lost the wings, ground down, still vibrating, closer than naked skin, and doubting whether None or One might begin the world

yet I expect nothing but the scarlet world of symbols

I believe I am the vague texture of prayer collapsing, ground down, next to zero trepidation and fever, 

the wind and its secrecy of gift, seven days, seven seas, sailing fires of love descending upon the other, unborn, fires of mine

Open fracture

there is no stable blue

river
flowing
in me

in the morning I die, drowned
in the evening I die, thirsty
against the bedrock where the mouth bleeds

syllables of dense fight within fire
there is none, one, you, burning much
my rivers unstable in the morning in the evening
because the mountain climbs and tears the tissue of my flesh
unborn until the first force of the naked trust on being a river
unstable but true to the text where none, one, you are my flowing  

dreaming trees within my

here trees breathe mountains 

and trees climb echoes and slopes of a dreamer in awe in me 

and I know nothing but my becoming the listener and the reader of warm skin and open blue    

there is no language for a person walking within the idea of an edge or kiss or touch or confusion a poem that understands not the embrace of none, one, you, the sand where the original thirst belongs 

and from thirst comes much chant

here trees breath my needy poem by the mouth of the dreamer

and from dreamer to dreamer the spiral of chant brings fruit to the mouth 

here the arch between air and fire happens 

and a poem of glowing skin grows younger than my morning lips 

here fruits chase trees as if a chant looks for the entire body of none, one, you 

a poem of skin carries you alone to the naked trunk and naked breasts of this beginning 

or this bodily idea of crossing the senses where and when the whole secrecy of seeing the sun transforms the surface of time into a new truth 

the chant unfolds without my fear of sphinx

  

because here sunbeams raise my mountain and drive my path in the mountain or soul

as if africa was the flesh still burning from that first lightening through the clay   

no alfabeto da mulher

uma mulher vem sempre pelo caminho mais íngreme.

a travessia do alfabeto queima os lábios com o sol do Futuro recomeço a escrever nas árvores o Teu Nome

uma certa manhã, guardando o segredo do Princípio.

a voz do narrador transborda do alfabeto da mulher com claridade de corpo na lua. o meu coração é o teu tambor.

todas as noites passam pelo deus nulo da solidão. recomeço, depois de nulo, sempre uma certa manhã, a escrever...

as estórias transformam as bibliotecas em mulheres sempre em redor da circunferência da lágrima. ao longe, o Indefinido desenha uma ilha de náufragos e uma fúria de amantes a fazer outro mundo... Onde 

les oiseaux rouges

je ne me souviens pas.

le silence cristallin amène la neige cet été jusqu'au chapitre X où personne ne rattrape de mélancolie...

je ne me souviens pas.

une mère à mi-voix, toujours devant la fenêtre, retourne vers l'enfant comme un nuage qui s'attarde sur le feu.

elle se fane, raisonnant sur l’extrême pauvreté de la grammaire: un verbe capable, un pronom capable, une connexion capable. elle erre décoiffée, proche d'un Poème où l'on aime crier contre l'obscurité.

elle aime les vapeurs de livres et de tant de pourquoi's...

je ne me souviens pas du lendemain.

il y avait une maison dans la maison, un lit dans le lit, une femme dans la femme, une fumée de peau trop rarement loin de verbes et de plafond

je ne me souviens pas du rêve collé au geste vague de la fuite vers pourquoi autrement.

la pluie remue les lèvres faciles. je viens pleuvoir au milieu des sabres et des bras de sabres et des furies aux bras de sabres qui crient depuis le commencement et avant l'aube. Seul l'amour est furieux. la vérité est furieuse encerclée par la mélodie du loin.

je ne me souviens de personne dans la rue, sauf peut-être Sophia, l'audace des poitrines ivres de terre tremblante. Ici, le hasard fait Amour, contre et avec les oiseaux rouges.

une mère refuse le destin, l'idée de destin brûle son visage de guerre, je sauverai mon enfant de la guerre...

le lendemain, tous les enfants se mirent à oublier la légende du vol de l'aigle X  du chapitre X sur le désert X. elle allait nulle part voir mieux le vide, les yeux plus frais, chassant la neige de l'amour qui ne durait jamais jusqu'à l'aube, la faim durait plus, la barque durait moins...

je t'aime sans souvenir de pourquoi autrement avoir printemps, été,
les eaux les bois les combats
pour mieux pleuvoir
avec toi, mon été...

     

Corps d'Animal

Animal bodies are rivers within us 

you flow endless as if the earth were within us

memories taste dried seeds calling for a book within us

as if reading could save the garden and its flowers of colorful chaos within us

a body and a book symbolize more than Passion and Action within us

they confuse infinity and truth and the spring of Possibles 

all rivers cut deeply the mountains within us   

Eros & Chronos

Sophia may fall into Desire. the most speechless animal.

into Desire, Time begins the spiral of one soul. 

Truth hurts the concept of being one. Asks for the gift of silence 

when lips touch the unbounded curve of one last Aporia. 

The feet stop fever before the steps. 

otherwise the Fall says World again.

I climb the notion of rainbow feeding the Springs 

from breast to breast 

I think of one slope of thinking ascending till uncertain lips 

or till the word 

one logic painting bodies against the wall of the pristine blue 

in the cave

You ascend from the last Aporia, thinking against the wall, 

and breathing the limits of Mystery  

You embrace my wholes and parts in fever 

and my future angels of melancholy, my angles feeling 

my open nature

thinking of Eros, murmured by the chant of Time. 

Geometry helps my soul love flesh in soul. I study tonight 

later than God.

Arithmetic offers the science of becoming Eros 

and the ways and arts of loosing

    

perspiring One, You are my absolute cycle of flesh 

and my naked pursuit of the ways and arts of Lost Gardens 

where eternity changes All in All.

waters of late hours, later than God, when 

not-knowing feels the traces of arrows and spirals

I want your cloud under the landscape as though 

nothing doubted of Being...

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?