Para ti que me dás, em suma, tudo. Na conversão dos dias encontro a paixão por baixo de cada pedra, onde se espera que Deus cumpra a promessa; cabe-nos mais a nós.

Duas vezes nada

É assim, amiga. Encontramo-nos
quando calha nos bares de antigamente,
deixando que sobre o tampo azul
das mesas volte a pousar
um baço cemitério de garrafas.

Constatamos o pior, os seus aspectos.
Corpos e livros que foram ficando
por ler na voracidade da noite de Lisboa.
De facto, crescemos em alcoolémia,
acordamos tarde, em pânico,
e perdemos os dias e os dentes
com uma espécie de resignação.
Não temos, ao que parece, serventia.

Sorrimos um pouco, ao terceiro
gin, como quem renasce para a morte,
seus gestos de ternura ou de exuberância.
Talvez tenhamos calculado mal
o ângulo da queda, esta vitória
sem nobreza dos venenos todos.

Mas agora é tarde. Tudo fechou
para nós, para sempre. O amor,
o desejo, até o onanismo da destruição.
Antes de procurares a esmola
do último táxi, fica esta imagem
parada, a desvanecer-se
no frio mais frio da memória:

não dois corpos sentados a trocarem
medo, cigarros e palavras póstumas,
mas duas vezes nada, ninguém,
o silêncio da noite destronando
as cadeiras onde por razão nenhuma
nos sentámos. Os anos, amiga, passaram.

- Manuel de Freitas

intruderzg: as in asterix
intruderzg: and obelix
intruderzg: and all the other x's
intruderzg: or ixes
fsnxa: rabidogix
fsnxa: madcatix
fsnxa: emptyglassix
fsnxa: oh oh
fsnxa: readyshowerix

(time passes)

fsnxa: backix
fsnxa: dressix

(18:35) fsnxa: ah hell! halfpastsix!!

;)

É ali que eu me perco, que a vida ganha o cheiro da eternidade, onde nada morre e cada golfada de ar é uma estaca contra o sopro da morte, contra o destino mudo.

Álbum do ano.





"Happy Home"

In my happy home I barely breathe
In my lovers arms I find relief
And there's a sky that's changing and a bird that sings
I never once in my wayward life was heading to run out

In my lovers arms I wait for morning
I beg my god to speak and tear me apart
I'd lay down my body I'd lay down my arms
I never once in my sweet short life meant anybody harm

In my happy home i read the signs
In my lovers arms I move in time
There's no more crying and there's no more lies
I never once in my sweet short life was waiting for desire

And there's no more crying
And there's no more pain
I never thought for one second I'd have nothing left but shame

In my happy home I barely breathe
I never once in my wayward life was heading to run out

doze.


doze?


doze???!!!!!!

vezes

!

liso, lindo, bluetooth bluetooth

doze

are you my white whale
the hammer for my nails
tonight?

Remember Yesterday
(Cans/Stromblad/Donjak)

Can you tell me why
It seems so hard to carry on
When you hear a voice
From long ago, so bittersweet
Even though I try, I cannot
Read between the lines
You know I tried
Oh, yes, I tried, what's wrong
Too late to turn back time
To look over my shoulder
Maybe one day I'll return again
Rembember Yesterday and think about tomorrow
But you have to live today - Oh lonely yesterday
Don't leave me with the sorrow
Cause I have to live today
Every morning I awake
To see the newborn day
To carry on the flame
Until the end of time
Too late to turn back time
To look over my shoulder
Maybe one day I'll return again
Rembember Yesterday and think about tomorrow
But you have to live today - Oh lonely yesterday
Don't leave me with the sorrow
Cause I have to live today
Oh, oh, oh, don't step aside
And pretend about the future
Oh, oh, oh, never live a lie
Don't you know tomorrow never comes
Rembember Yesterday and think about tomorrow
But you have to live today - Oh lonely yesterday
Don't leave me with the sorrow
Cause I have to live today
Oh, oh, oh, don't step aside
And pretend about the future
Oh, oh, oh, never live a lie
Don't you know tomorrow never comes

Tablature

Há dias que eu odeio
Como insultos a que não posso responder
Sem o perigo duma cruel intimidade
Com a mão que lança o pus
Que trabalha ao serviço da infecção
São dias que nunca deviam ter saído
Do mau tempo fixo
Que nos desafia da parede
Dias que nos insultam que nos lançam
As pedras do medo os vidros da mentira
As pequenas moedas da humilhação
Dias ou janelas sobre o charco
Que se espelha no céu
Dias do dia-a-dia
Comboios que trazem o sono a resmungar para o trabalho
O sono centenário
Mal vestido mal alimentado
Para o trabalho
A martelada na cabeça
A pequena morte maliciosa
Que na espiral das sirenes
Se esconde e assobia
Dias que passei no esgoto dos sonhos
Onde o sórdido dá as mãos ao sublime
Onde vi o necessário onde aprendi
Que só entre os homens e por eles
Vale a pena sonhar.

- Alexandre O'Neill

Invulnerable

Invulnerable, invulnerable
is the one who understands the Word:
Happiness and unhappiness do not exist.
There is only life and death.

And when you have learnt that and stopped hunting the
wind
and when you have learnt that and stopped being afraid
of the blowing wind,
then come back to me and teach me once more:
Happiness and unhappiness do not exist.
There is only life and death.

I began to spell, when my desire was born,
and will stop spelling, when my desire is at an end.
The secret of the Word
we acquire in death.

- Karin Boye

Zélia Barbosa : Pedro pedreiro
Letra e música: Chico Buarque

Pedro pedreiro penseiro
esperando o trem
manha parece carece
de esperar também para o bem
de quem tem bem
de quem não têm vintém.

Pedro pedreiro fica assim pensando
assim pensando o tempo passa
e a gente vai ficando para traz
esperando, esperando, esperando, esperando o sol
esperando o trem
esperando o aumento
desde o ano passado
para o mês que vem

Pedro pedreiro espera o carnaval
e a sorte grande do bilhete
pela federal todo o mês
esperando, esperando, esperando, esperando o sol
esperando o trem
esperando o aumento
para o mês que vêm
esperando a festa
esperando a sorte
e a mulher de Pedro
tá esperando um filho
pra esperar também.
Pedro pedreiro ta esperando a morte
ou esperando o dia de voltar pró norte
Pedro não sabe mas talvez no fundo
espera alguma coisa mais linda que o mundo
maior que o mar.
Mas pra quê sonhar sei lá?
No desespero de esperar demais
Pedro pedreiro quer voltar atrás
quer ser pedreiro
pobre e nada mais sem ficar
esperando, esperando, esperando, esperando o sol
esperando o trem
esperando o aumento
para o mês que vêm
esperando um filho pra esperar também
esperando a festa
esperando a sorte
esperando a morte
esperando o norte
esperando o dia de esperar ninguém
esperando enfim nada mais que além
que a esperança aflita, , bendita, infinita do apito do trem.

APOCALYPSE DREAMS
(Sullivan) 1996

I went up to the mountain, apocalypse dreams in my head
There was fire upon the horizon but it was just the sunrise turning red
Maybe it's time, maybe it's time . . .

Each night I walk to the edge of the city out to where the darkness begins
Made a promise out here a long time ago and I've been waiting ever since
Maybe it's time, maybe it's time . . .

My world has become an empty place
Of great, wide landscapes and weird painted skies
Strange patterns and islands of light
And people move as shadows never touching at all
I've never been afraid to die, maybe scared to live

I've been across every ocean just chasing after storms
My crew long dead or deserted now and the seas nothing but calm
Maybe it's time, maybe it's time - to turn the ship around

Aboard at a Ship's Helm
by: Walt Whitman

ABOARD, at a ship’s helm,
A young steersman, steering with care.

A bell through fog on a sea-coast dolefully ringing,
An ocean-bell—O a warning bell, rock’d by the waves.

O you give good notice indeed, you bell by the sea-reefs ringing,
Ringing, ringing, to warn the ship from its wreck-place.

For, as on the alert, O steersman, you mind the bell’s admonition,
The bows turn,—the freighted ship, tacking, speeds away under her gray sails,
The beautiful and noble ship, with all her precious wealth, speeds away gaily and safe.

But O the ship, the immortal ship! O ship aboard the ship!
O ship of the body—ship of the soul—voyaging, voyaging, voyaging

Our Eunuch Dreams
by: Dylan Thomas

I

Our eunuch dreams, all seedless in the light,
Of light and love, the tempers of the heart,
Whack their boy’s limbs,
And, winding-footed in their shawl and sheet,
Groom the dark brides, the widows of the night
Fold in their arms.

The shades of girls, all flavoured from their shrouds,
When sunlight goes are sundered from the worm,
The bones of men, the broken in their beds,
By midnight pulleys that unhouse the tomb.

II

In this age the gunman nad his moll,
Two one-dimensional ghosts, love on a reel,
Strange to our solid eye,
And speak their midnight nothings as they swell;
When cameras shut they hurry to their hole
Down in the yard of day.

They dance between their arclamps and our skull,
Impose their shots, showing the nights away;
We watch the show of shadows kiss or kill,
Flavoured of celluloid give love the lie.

III

Which is the world? Of our two sleepings, which
Shall fall awake when cures and their itch
Raise up this red-eyed earth?
Pack off the shapes of daylight and their starch,
The sunny gentlemen, the Welshing rich,
Or the drive the night-geared forth.

The photograph is married to the eye,
Grafts on its bride one-sided skins of truth;
The dream has sucked the sleeper of his faith
That shrouded men might marrow as they fly.

IV

This is the world: the lying likeness of
Our strips of stuff that tatter as we move
Loving and being loth;
The dream that kicks the buried from their sack
And lets their trash be honoured as the quick.
This is the world. Have faith.

For we shall be a shouter like the cock,
Blowing the old dead back; our shots shall smack
The image from the plates;
And we shall be fit fellows for a life,
And who remain shall flower as they love,
Praise to our faring hearts.

acerca-te da minha janela
contar-te-ei o que há nela
olha, vês
a merda dum francês
velho e seco nos anos de usura
os olhos baços, a fronte dura
agarrado como um nojento caracol
às pastas castanhas a tiracolo
conta cabeças como dinheiro
e tem na barriga o mundo inteiro.

Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.

-Carl G. Jung

não te peço mais do que as pedras
algumas pedras, gentis
subtis
a métrica de um copo
dos socalcos e reflexos
de trinta mil rubis
junta-mas todas num copo de ti
e atira-me a este pinhal
cedendo-me o penedo da fé
o pomar que sempre quis
e pede-me um fogo
pede-me um planeta de amor
arranca-me todos os dias
os que guardo secretos
com a altivez dos cativos
e não me dês mais que a tua boca de mel.

Vodka intimate, an affair with isolation in a blackheath cell,
Extinguishing the fires in a private hell,
Provoking the heartache to renew the license.
Of a bleeding heart poet in a fragile capsule,
Propping up the crust of the glitter conscience.
Wrappped in the christening shard of a hangover,
baptized in tears from the real, tears from the real...

Drowning in the liquid seas on the picadilly line, rat-race,
scuttling through the damp electric labyrinth.

Caress Ophelia's hand with breaststroke ambition,
The albatross courtship marrytime tradition.

Sheathed with the walkman wear the halo of distortion,
aural contraceptive aborting pregnant conversation.

But she turned the harpoon and it pierced my heart,
she hung herself around my neck.

From the Time-Life guardians in their conscience bubbles,
safe and dry in my sea of troubles.
Nine to Fives, with suitable ties,
While I'm cast adrift as their sideshow, (sideshow),
peepshow, (peepshow), stereo hero,
becalm, bestill, bewitch, drowning, drowning in the real...

The thief of Bagdad hides in Islington now,
praying deportation for his sacred cow.
A legacy of romance from a twilight world,
the dowry of a relative mystery girl.

A Vietnamese flower, a dockland union,
a mistress of release from a magazine's thighs.
This magdalene contracts more than favours,
the feeding hands of western promise hold her by the throat.

A son of the swastika of '45, parading a peroxide standard.
Graffitti disciples conjure testaments of hatred.
Aerosol wands whisper where the searchlights trim the barbed wire hedges.
This is Brixton chess.

A knight for embankments - folds his newspaper castle,
a creature of habit, begs the boatman's coin,
He'll fade with old soldiers - in the grease stained roll call,
linger with the heartburn of good friday's last supper.

Son watches father scan obituary columns,
in search of absent school friends.
While his generation digests high-fiber ignorance,
cowering behind curtains and the taped up, painted windows.
Decriminalized genocide, provided door to door Belsens.
Pandora's box of holocausts,
gracefully cruising satellite infested heavens,
Waiting, wait..waiting the season of the button,
the penultimate migration,
Radioactive perfumes for the fashionably,
for the terminally insane ... insane

Do you realize,
This world is totally fugazi!

Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries,
where are the poets, to breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary