palavra

que a palavra seja a coisa, o acto, o próprio acontecer-Me
a elipse vibrante dos lábios que faz do ar uma deflagração
a palavra desde sempre e para sempre no círculo aberto
meia-noite-meio-dia
a palavra que faz princípio
muitos ecos de calar-se

digo-me o nome deste Outono quase a dobrar-me
ausente onda do álcool de Deus absorto aqui
digo-me que se repete tanto tudo nada fundo
primeira palavra depois de largo lamento
tanto calar-se discordo-me tardo-me longe

o nome exacto de morrer de sede agora
no meu meio-dia-meia-noite
sempre novamente

flash vowels

she brings pours blows the orange crayons over and over the horizon

the rock the skin the mud the final waters diving in here in now

right here right now I owe the point the line the plane the final curves

o you o me sunsets to dive

if. only if. she comes.

do Indefinível ao indefinido

foram infinitas navegações que queimaram a carne e os ossos
aproximações ao coração do fogo, o Indefinível que lavrava todos os tecidos do mundo por dentro

o Indefinível evapora-se no indefinido. talvez.
como se o sopro que transmutou o barro em carne fosse também todo filho do pó
como se a respiração fosse apenas terra - mais ou menos subtil

o indefinido sucede ao Indefinível, tocamos em Nada com a menor ondulação da tempestade

necessidade de montanha

a montanha aquece os pés de porquê.

vem vermelho íntimo pousar na língua.

os espíritos que esse sangue de montanha envia ao cérebro são densos e agitados como os teus braços futuros que são ventos muito subtis em torno de todos os meus músculos. também os mistérios têm ramos e pulmões. penso como os teus olhos ligam tudo a tudo. desde a veia cava até à espuma de saliva que contorna os lábios do vazio, da vigília, da ideia de amor de ainda

inteiro é o fogo: a única fonte de luz que conhece o caminho da cinza ao cristal. transmutação nocturna que consome desde o começo até ao fumo.

a lua engendra montanhas que se alimentam do fluxo e refluxo das minhas ânsias.
desenho crateras com pó de palavras que caiu mais pesado que todos os corpos quebrados desde a primeira contracção até à dilatação da pupila.

querer no futuro um certo bater do pulso
um sinal rubro da passagem de chamas
longe do vapor das lágrimas

encontrar-se

procuras há muito o que não encontras.

esqueces a perda.
e acabas por encontrar sem procurar.
o que procuras vem encontrar-te em repouso de busca.

hours and horses

one point, line or surface is equal to another point, line or surface. very seldom. there can be no geometrical demonstration for this. hands of mine seizing finite fractions of fractions of waves and waves of yours. from across the dire strait.
hours. the extremest edges. I can find none but the future annihilation of closed circles. I desire it may be produced. the necessary connexion of force and future.

we have so obscure an idea of desire and belief that all the imaginings we can invent are nothing but perishing moons. my bed and papers appear as an hypothesis for near or remote horses. bodies change their position and coherence in the text.
another breast opens. I shall write to develop these cliffs of almost nothing. and explain never. the mountains where. how much. whenever you have called. always the shocks of crystals to me.
passions and affections are houses and trees. the strokes of embodied nothing. where much fresh waters assure us of matter of fact. say fire and pain. upon a close approach.

any interruption in my feeling or bond obtains a silent explosion. the desire to excel in transition from X to X. the unknown extent of the burned substance. the unknown river in our palms touches the cause.

I must confess a labyrinth. I neither propose nor dispose. the whole labyrinth induces me to not spare any horse. the journey possesses the agitated idea of riding. the passage conceals the breast in motion.
Suppose I imagine at present the voice coming from my next extinction into the rays of light. flowing from those tongues of confusion. confining myself to hope and fear. with compass and loss. deeper than the complete machine of inflamable horses

heated things

it is no secret. blood disolves.
in the shade of fragile secrecy.
what is loved perspires. bittersweet.
our mouths need fruit. our mouths are fruits. themselves.
this is language where the breasts appear as breasts. a clearing in the forest.
and the forest appears as forest. bodies read and write this language.
a drop of saliva opens the book. half saliva half humus.

next fall

sensing next fall through imaginary sounds of rain.
sensing in disconcert. from your garden. nearly living.
a place where I can go and cry. against angels.
never warm enough. dark blue light blue.

birds could come. as the one who listens to my moon.
seven times seventy. zero. layers of zero.
never fully explicated.

a room of care

branches of burned skin. almost invisible.
another garden where one gets lost. or not. or maybe.
and a certain mouth still to come. or not. or maybe. and to touch another mouth in need of fruit. before a possible rebirth. or not. or maybe.

the moon was dry. born too early.
breaking the circle or the process of dying.

journey

leave it or burn it up.
many ropes tie doomed things. this book to come. smells like living non-living petals. I used to read it. and letters could talk and flower like children. playing with sorrows as if toys. none is saved from walking together through many layers of dust and flood. beyond and back home. dust years, flood years, layers of skin, that's us. bitterness, sweetness, confused streams of it, that's us. the smell deepens the mattresses and conforts. the pace of confusion increases and drops. abruptly. almost cruel and raw like those unwashed wounds and scars. driving us till the innermost chamber of us. fibers of some day. the innermost fibers on the other side of some day. here's the past crying for horses. children under a strange silence pulling them. forceps of silence. the flesh fights over everything, loves that urge. never told. too far apart. green eyes should flower throwing fire. the whole field is soft skin under night hawks writing on the walls. they know when a house is emptying. when dark green shades hesitate between air and humus.

patient stories

the heart is again a the edge between X and X
or another garden with naked bodies
plunging down until roses and fruits

less burned than Eden
eyes open and close

the muscles of the heart look at each other to start over again
under the fierce sun turning west through red fields of verbs

a well in the desert heated by future wildfires vibrates and steams
bodies over the sands vibrating and steaming

again springs and nerves
along the abandoned verbs