slim is the gesture of the night
certain atoms are always calling
scarce in their twinkle of time
I am caught in the distance between them
looking up, my feet are not bare enough
to hold me to the sky
so narrow are the walled alleyways between sight
and soul, the drift of the lights windows
against the shutters of the heart
leaving my love to scribble in the dirt
looking up... as always ...too far away

The wind in March does not
dive into melancholy with
February's prisoners chained
to a grey sky
it does not roar with gaping mouth
nor bleeds into rust and decay
choiceless
in my love for you
I am surrendered
I howl
I am uplifted
I rise
with this peculiarity of you.

Worlds appear and disappear
in our sexual embrace.
We linger here, fully realized.

In the Pencilled Inn…

The pen lies between a scribbled age,
beatles throw scorn at birds in a cage.
My thoughts have gone south with rage,
don’t read what is on the page’s page.

Create a lust even though it’s false,
race your hot blood through each pulse.
Stand up and speak for someone else,
even to berate them with themselves.

Can’t always fulfil wishes of m pirates house,
unfortunate our Mr Fox was a royal louse.
That Ben’s clock never met a giant mouse,
did we his flame as well his anger douse.

SAUDADES

Namorados amam

até não amam mais

nada que esiste

esiste para sempre

e o presente pôe-se passado

E os que dizem “eternidade”

Falam só “saudade”

PHONETIC

nahmoor-AD-oosh uh-mã [squeeze nostrils when you see this sign ~] auh AS IN “UH, I SEE]

Ah-tey nõw uh-mã m-eye-sh

Nuhduh ezeesh-tchee p-uh-ruh s~empree

Oo pray-z~ntchee p~oy-see puh-sah-doo

ee uzh kee dzeez~e ey-ternee-dad -gee

Fal~a soh sa-oo-dad-gee

ENGLISH

LONGINGS

Lovers love

Great, I’m free

As is all my free verse poetry
Not many read me
As I speak in riddles
but that doesn't irk me,
as free I am
as a soaring bird ought to be,
Out above the horizon
Where humanity is not limited...

I soar beyond all oceans and time
I bother not about meter or rhyme
if none read me it isn't a crime.
for Loved is creativity
hence that name of mine.

Through the tunnels of my ear lobes
They came, talked and left, the words echo
Struggling in strive, they stumbled
Waking up and back to our beds
The living and dying dressed up
In recurrent cycles of woes
Looking at our history lesson
I wonder why we forget fast
The dead fret not for the living
They are dead and rest now in peace
Hassles are for those still alive
On what the future holds for them
The dead natter with silent signs
In sleep, like death, we learn to die

Why is it,
That I can’t identify
The words said
With her eyes

Am I truly looking deep inside
Can I reflect what’s conveyed
From a heart that touches mine
Is it a moment
I have let pass in time

There are words never spoken
Which are articulated with a gesture
That speak volumes
Without vibrating upon an eardrum

If my eyes were truly open
Would I gather
The corollary intimation
Of librettos which were not sung
Only to be captured in loves relation

It was November the last time you touched me.
It was November and the leaves had done their changing.
Winter was calling, coaxing them to curl,
beckoning brown where Autumn had lit them.

In my head you are still at the foot of my bed.
One lightbulb humming golden on our skin.
This is how memory moves.

You are long and you are pale
but I remember you pink.
So you are pink. You are a poison.
Do you remember me laying on the floor that night?

I stripped and skinny dipped
down into your eyes
the night you left me.

Cold, cold, murky waters,
deep black sockets.

Your hands were in your pockets.
I rose trembling on your shore.

perhaps a stupid thing
laughable, yes
but frustration is intricate
it's web works in mysterious ways -
for example:
a deck of cards.

a game, just a game i said
then i said it again
if you don't say it, it can't be true
so the reverse must work as well.