Poems (EN)

A collection of poems of all sorts and shades.

My favorite is blue.

 

 

On The Verge Of

I feel
I’m on the verge of […]
On the verge of […]
The verge.

I’ll just leave it that way
Because I’m so close to
finding the end of the sentence.

I don’t want to spoil it.
I don’t.

I’ll keep it for myself,
As a reluctant virgin
Sitting on her immaculate pants.

It’s a secret I can’t tell.
Not even to myself.

It’s like living a dream
Where I happen to walk for miles
In search of something.

Then I find the Sea.
It’s like a casual meeting
Between two old friends
After many many years.

He is staring at me
And I’m staring at him,
And it’s kind of funny,
As none of us has eyes.

Eyes to see
The beauty of things
Or the ugly in me.

We pretend we are perfect
The Sea and I.

But, to be real,
We both have flaws.
He flows and never sets.

I set, and never flow.
I have a static mind.

I move through life
With a motionless spirit
Rooted in what’s forever gone.

I would love to be
Like my friend,
The Sea.
I could be waves reaching the beach.

I could easily be
A current coming from
The deepest south

With blood boiling in my veins
And dust in the lungs.

A Sea creature
With a strong tail
Made up of tiny red scales.

I would love to be a stunning
Beast.

A wild wild something
Hiding in the dark Sea
Or in the flush of a clogged toilet.

The toilet at Club 79,
Down the road,
Turn left.
Right there.

Instead I am me.
Walking down the pier
Ending right in front it’s bandstand.

But it’s not just me or the Sea
Anymore.

There’s another man,
Taking the spot I deserve
To talk to the Sea.

He passes by, and
In a swift motion, he’s gone.

I’ve snapped a picture
Of him,
So that he’ll forever deprive me
Of That One Thing I Want.

Once I have done that,
I felt
I was on the verge of […]

On the verge of […]
The verge of

Sinking.

 

 

ABSURDLY EVIL.

she said she was
ABSURDLY EVIL.
immoral, like a racist joke.
profoundly in rage.

her misfortunes
came from a spell
a woman in the metro
put on her.

she had to bear
the curse of knowing
she wasn’t special,
nor unique.

a terrible curse
for a society where
everyone is praised
just for being alive.

 

 

Funny Thing Is That

funny thing is that I can’t picture you, but
you can picture me.

all flaws. all falls.

i got photographs for ages and eras
of my fucking smile.

i am all sorts of things when you take a pic of me:

i can be a muse, i can be a sad mermaid, i can be a tormented asshole.

to me, however, you’re more like a puzzle.
hard.
hard to solve.

i try.
i try to fit in your pieces.

but i am sharp
and you are round.

 

 

Come Whenever You Want.

come whenever you want.
she’ll open the door,
let you in,
and offer you
some toasted butter
and a ripe peach.

one bite,
two bites,
you’ll sink your teeth
into this not-so-new
juicy story:
it won’t stop dripping.

she is gonna tell you
a bunch of shit,
like, that her life has been
miserable before you,
and that it is going to be
miserable even after you, ’cause she doesn’t believe
in love.
she doesn’t believe in you.
she does believe,
however,
in hunger
and thirst,
and, unfortunately, she has been
deprived for so long.

deprived of what,
you’ll ask.
deprived of the human touch,
she’ll answer.
but the truth is
that she craves attention.
basically, she’ll open the door
at street number 19,
and she’ll offer you
some tea,
but she’ll ask you to hear
her manufactured story.

you’ll have to nod.
nod and eat it all up.
ask her out,
for her to say
just no,
i’m not ready.

i’m not ready
to let you in,
not in this house
of flesh and blood
that lives
at street number 19.

nineteen
like the age
i had
when I realized
love is a made up
thing

for those who really
really want it
but don’t really
– really –
feel it.
and I’m not ready.

i’m not ready
to take it all the way,
fake it all the way,
or fuck you all the way,
but I need you to hear
my story,
she’ll say.

eat the peach, okay?

 

 

Wanna Visit The Exhibition?

wanna visit the exhibition?

just asking:
down to the docks,
and in a room full of people,
i know you want to see Art.

whether it’s Nature’s
or Man-made work,
you say ‘show me something
that looks real and rough’.

this car is always on the road,
but today, you say,
I have got a flat tyre.
so I show you myself, and I unwind.

you say you have time to spend
exploring
the meanders of my soul,
as I resemble the rooms and halls
in this museum.

you like me flowing
in a chain of liquid chambers
where I get shapes
that do not belong to me.

it’s like an infinite surprise:
you have no idea
what is real,
and what’s artificial.
i’m just slipping away.

you see beautiful pieces,
but if you put a bag over
the ‘beautiful’ part,
it’s just about tiny little particles
refracting the light.

at the end,
mine is an exhibition of mirrors,
and you are the one being reflected.
there’s no higher form of Art than
an oblivious Individual.

 

 

Tired Doe Eyes.

tired doe eyes,
piercing those
heavy eyelids
when they rest underneath.

it’s a blanket of flesh,
and if you tuck it tight,
multicolored sparks will appear.

 

 

I hate rhetorical questions.

fly?
you say she flies.
how high does she fly, though?

high.
she is high.
smoking pot from the rooftops
of the city.
big lights, no fun,
everything shimmers
like a sequined dress
of a Vegas soubrette.

higher.
she is higher than the clouds.
one’s a lamb,
one’s a dog,
one’s a cock.
one’s just smoke,
but it looks like an albino snake.
The highest.
she is The highest of them all.

them?
‘them all’. who is ‘them’ anyway?

them, who are knocked out
after a long night at the docks.
it was just two beers,
four shots
and three or five
Deaths In The Afternoon.
them, who are busy busy,
they cannot talk.
they stroll around town
with their cellphones
in their purse,
in their jacket,
in their arse.

arse?
why would you say that? …
and so on.

 

 

Drink Her Like A Fine Bellini.

drink her
like a
fine bellini.

hair is dancing,
and like seafoam,
she comes and goes.

slowly lick
the tears
from her rosy cheeks.

they told me
she outta taste like peach
and salt.

they weren’t wrong.

Sit Here With Me.

Sit here with me.
Come, do not be afraid:
I don’t really bite.
At least, no more.
I was a bitch,
meaning both a female dog
and a cunt,
but I’m no more,
no more.

So, come and sit with me:
as I usually sit with my legs
spread open,
I’ve left just a little space
for you,
but hey,
it’s gonna be enough
– enough for you -,
I promise.

I know you don’t need much space.
I know you don’t need much.
I know you.
I know.
You’ll probably be surprised,
but who cares.
Who cares?
I don’t, no more.

I took all the space,
because the World is mine
and I do the fuck I want.
You don’t really need much space.
You don’t.
I sit the way I sit,
because I’m giving birth
to a whole new form
of Life that I own.
It is mine, and not yours.
Simply not yours.

I brought the colors, the emotions, the art:
what did you bring?
What did you bring for us?
You just brought your ass,
to sit on this white bench,
while I’ve created something
you’ll never be able to appreciate.

Just tell me another time
I’m not worth it.
Tell me my art
means nothing.
I might be dumb or naive,
but at least
I’m alive.
I’m not the umpteenth zombie
living for one single dime.

Come here, then,
we will sit together
and eat a sandwich
or whatever.
Seagulls will fly above our heads
like vultures in the savanna.

I wonder whether they’ll want
the food or the human
that has been dead for a while
right by my side.

 

 

On Page 46, Line 15.

She had to go to a place
where the sun never sets
and happy kids do not grow
into boring and melancholic adults
who like weak coffee and sappy movies.

She went to a library,
as books have infinite days
and an expansive allure of
many things happening all at once.
The coffee was bad anyways.

She tried to read,
gathering thoughts and ideas,
entering and withdrawing tauntingly,
before reaching a climax of numbness
on page 46, line 15.

She,
in her immense sense of artificial obligation,
felt, like Prometheus,
bound to a rock:
τυφλὰς ἐν αὐτοῖς ἐλπίδας κατῴκισα, bitch.

She made a transgression,
as she stole the fire
from the Gods
and gave it
to her human self.

A golden eagle flew upon her.
Hungry for liver, not ready to bite her.
But she wanted to shout that
She had to stole the words
to avoid stealing the World.

 

 

WAIT!

i’m nowhere, i’m everywhere.
i’m a little spot in a picture,
an invisible something
that blurs in the background.
one of a thousand trees
silently standing
waiting to […]

waiting to,
wait,
i can’t remember:
been waiting so long
i actually forgot.
but, maybe,
i say “maybe”,
i’m waiting to be chopped.

chop me.
curse me,
as i’m that type of tree
that always falls wrong.
it’s a thing that,
normally,
dots shouldn’t do.
so let me be a dot,
let me be your spot.
one that blurs in the background.

one that blurs in the foreground.
one that blurs
and then it’s gone.