Thank you.

Now, right now and forever, we are one.

I want you since the day I’ve met you.
And I melt on your gaze, every time you frown.

I get hung up on your voice, as it seethes and burns into my veins… as to adjust my heart rhythm to the beating going on beneath your own skin, deep inside your chest; the centre of everything that is warm and meaningful to me.
Why won’t you stay? Please, quit joking and tell me that you won’t leave in five hours, in four hours in a half, in three hours and twenty minutes.

Your smell…
Your skin…
My heart
Is mine!
Take it, it’s yours.
I’ve always thought of myself as complete, and full, and whole. But with you I see, with you I find the line between me and the abysm eating through my days unexplainably clear.
You are what’s missing. I only exist with you.

And if lovemaking is actually makeable and it is even conceivable that two humans can be capable of such magnificent act; then we are the ones transgressing possibility and preaching, for love is what we do. What we are. What is between us.
The Verb is real when your eyes meets mine.
I wish there would be time, more time for me to get to know you better and memorize over and over again every inch of you, while humming; for me to look at you endlessly and… if you are you and I am me, let us please be just one… thing, clasped and enmeshed together in a continuous and cyclic unity with no time nor space or any other worldly prison to it.
I want you for me, and for me alone.
Will you marry me? Do you want to?
Let us not be that short-sighted and refrain to the mundane side of this, for my love for you outstretches the Earth: I want to be with you, just exist with you forever.
I wish I could watch you wake up defencelessly,
And I wish I could watch you sleep, all night.
More; I wish I could steal you from this world and keep you for me until the end of the days, so that I could make you a baby and keep you safe while you’re with my child, and – if that can ever be – see you pregnant and be overwhelmed with your immense beauty, for you’d be even more beautiful than you already are. I hope that four years from now, when you return, you come to me and let me take you
Take you to the beach where we were born, where we first met,
To the beach where we can be one and exist to the infinity
To the beach where we could drink each other incessantly, tirelessly and without care,
For providence is a beautiful thing and I only feel thirsty when I long for you.

For there would be no airplanes to take
No city waiting up on us to wake up
And all but Nature would be gone

Why is my life scarred by distance
And departure
And miles of goodbyes, parallel to each other as if they were rails…
It is horribly, downright sad that not even all traffic lights turning red gave us enough time to put some muteness to the fatal distance crashing up on us and smothering our love with drowning break-ups and tears.

I want you to be happy and feel good and have the night of your life,
And to forget you’re leaving in twenty minutes.
I want to keep you inside me until I return,
I won’t move your hairs from my car;
I won’t take this bracelet off ever again;
I won’t even bathe if that keeps your divine smell with me a little bit longer…

Our children; they would be blonde and have your eyes
And my mouth
And your hair,
And a smile and innocence of their own, for they would know nothing but Love.

Send me away… or else, I’ll neve leave.
Go away…
Come back.
Only if to your arms.


Je veux partir d'ici..

d'ici, ici peut etre quelque place que l'Homme pense (si encore la realite n'est pas pensée comme une constatation de l'object, mais une creation de le sujet sensible)... l'ici de que je parle est l'ici que existe maintenant en mon coeur, oú je reste sur l'air de tout les choses que je veut faire mais que je ne peut pas...


I sincerely do hope...

...you're here to get me, upon my return.


Soromenho on the run

And finally it appears the name is suitable.

Adeus Lisboa,
Hello Scotland


Sanskritic holes

pierced in my skin, while my fingers bleed.


At sea

You are my Ocean's bottom.
You are my beginning, my end
The herein farthest place where light won't hit nor cast the faintest shadow
And the tower that supports the everything that is me.

If I am to be the Sea
Then you'd surely be the salt and the deepness that holds me together
And the Moon that changes tides
And all that is Life and God, in between

For you are animal, you are human
you are unquestionably and insanely divine
And there is music, and hope
And fears, and joy
And a midst of enthusiasm and childish euphoria with pain
Memoralia and strong, embedded beliefs
That grow and mature to an unique, unlikely, everlasting fufilled you

Loving you entirely will keep me safe
And guard me at night
and keep me from all despair
For you are sure, and eternal, and far too beautiful inside-out to put out with words
There's so much more to the all that you give body too...
That it is not sickening, but intoxicatingly attractive and whole to even put thought to.


Não há tempo.

E o Ontem de Ontem é o Hoje que Passou, de um Amanhã tão longínquo quanto o Passado.

Já tivemos esta conversa.

An Education

Dead inside, I am
- but I haven’t been killed.
Dead inside, I am.
-       and no one bothered to burry me.

And it is not exactly as if I actually died,
But more as if I herein am forced to live – or better, to exist – with Death within.
Dead inside, I am.
And a part of me was not amputated, but merely shut down to a subordinate and necrotic numb existence, spreading Death to everything that is around.

Let it be? Easier said than done, I am afraid…
For I’ve been to Paris
(and that goes for being extremely, intensely alive)
And in the dark I lie missing colours, for I wasn’t born blind…

And men in my life – well, in truth simply boys – keep suffocating me with doubts and passions and fears and complications that, quite frankly, I couldn’t care less for
When, reality stated, the only men I Loved – (pause) – he no longer is.

Dead inside, I am
… but I can’t see a way to get back to life.
Maybe, just maybe it is meant to be so. Exist dead without living or dying.

And, unfortunately, I did not go – for I am not Jenny
Nor was I good enough to stick to plan A
(and in this secondary type of crawling, day by day, I sadly am).


Isto era demasiado bom para desaparecer numa janela do facebook.

adorava amar-te
e que tu me amasses também
também eu.
se calhar era o mais próximo da perfeição romântica que poderíamos ter
but it isn't so. ponto.
acho que te amo, num certo sentido...
sim... eu percebo
há muitas formas de amor
e nessa maneira acho que te amo também
mas digo Amar-te incondicionalmente, como se Ama a sério
por isso é que me sinto...
estás-me a assustar.
eu ia dizer "por isso é que sinto necessidade de distinguir amor e Amor"
eu percebo...
mais uma vez
vamos dormir?
só gostava de dormir
ultimamente ando acordada no sono
estou derreada
percebo-te, mais ou menos. mais menos do que mais, acho eu
ir dormir, vou, mas acho que não vou deixar de estar cansada de manhã
há muito tempo que não dormia tão bem como o tenho feito
para dormir temos a morte...
nem sonhas como te invejo
não ando a dormir nada, não posso dormir nada e quando durmo estou acordada.
isto é muita metafísica (ou tentativa falhada de...) para aqui
que queres? é o que há.
já podemos ir dormir? desculpa, estou...
fisicamente (yay!)
acho que emocionalmente tãobem, mas acho que já me habituei, portanto...
tãobem tepercebo
e enfim, amando-nos mas não nos Amando, vamos nós dormir: tu descansando e eu ficando acordada. a vida é bela mas às vezes é triste.
somos uns génios incompreendidos. 


a semana passada

Os what ifs perseguem-me, e só vivi 80 anos.
O que são 80 anos quando se tem o Mundo, diziam eles em jeito de pergunta (daquelas que não devem jamais ser respondidas)
Pois, para mim, são tudo.
O que é o Tempo?
É o que nos separa dos deuses.
O que é o tempo?
É sabê-lo, e ser mais que cadáver andante que espera a hora de se rever...
Com o Tudo. Não há Tempo. O tempo é o nada e eu sou o Tudo.

Não tenho alma se em mil bocados me parto e retorno à minha essência...
Sou o nada.
Sou um nada errante que, mais que tudo, teme te reencontrar.
Sou o Mar.
E não sei, de dia, o caminho de volta de onde vim.
(não fora um para o de onde for)

Tenho 80 anos de uma perfeição sinestésica e circular que não parece ter chão.
Nem tecto.
Nem horizonte
Nem sentido, para esse efeito, no deserto imenso do teu Amor em modo repeat.

Há algo sacro no tocar de leve do papel e escorrer tinta como quem discorre lágrimas e não pensamentos
(sem corpo, não consigo mais chorar)
E sussurrar-te ao ouvido baixinho as mais indecifráveis histórias de outros tempos
em que não havia Tempo nem História que as enquadrasse
nem saias rodadas, nem flores, nem sofrimento que ultrapassasse um ponto de exclamação

E ser ingénuo como a água era muito mais que Ser

(é esta a minha existência, branca como um neologismo de fumo que não se conhece)
e faço cada vez menos sentido
como o livro que te dediquei um dia
e não o leste. Pois não?
(in) DENIAL – a etiqueta que hoje te coloquei na testa.

Até amanhã.


Confessions on a dancefloor.

‘Going back isn’t that bad’, he said, without the slightest inflexion of fear under his tone.

I miss my old life, my old inconsequent self.
I miss the parties; I miss the libidinous glares, the constant concern to keep it alive, beautiful and real. I miss coke, I miss smoking joints as if they were cigarettes. I miss music, having time, hanging out and giving long walks on the beach at 10 am, after hitting the club. I miss artificial relationships and having no real interest on others. I miss YOUTH. I miss
I miss living the dream.
But dreams… they die. And we are forced into waking up to the irritating buzz of our room’s alarm clock, tossed and revolved beneath our bed, next to a pile of books and bills and a baby crying.
I’m homesick, although I never had a real home.
Hangovers don’t seem that bad, now, when putting it to perspective… at least you feel, you feel any freaking thing other than this oozing numbness coming from inside and taking control.
Is it rape if you enable it? Well, guess than that’s make it_
I was nothing, but at least I was happy and fulfilled.
I didn’t care about anyone, but at least I was taken care of.
Has it any worth, walking this Earth half asleep?

‘Stick to the present’, he said, and triumph hit him hard. He smiled and looked up to the sky. Twenty minutes to boarding. He was living the dream.

Sometimes the biggest risk of all can be to simply say “No.” and stick to your own convictions. It doesn’t hurt… at least that much.
I quit dreams, I quit aspirations, I quit everything except hoping that maybe one day the pain, the blood, the sweat and tears will be rewarded. Because although I have nothing, at least I am something. And, as for now, I choose the hardest path of all… Not going.
I’m not afraid. I want to go, and leave, and take a chance out there. But it seems empty and shallow, meaningless, and too big of a risk just for a few happy years.
… But will I ever have happy years staying?
Probably not. Not even on the long run.
Maybe I’m not entitled to being happy, I’m not worth it. It sucks, but It’s better to live it up and work with what you’ve got than spend your life complaining – when it gets down to it, the ones that

I’m dead, inside. But at least I’m not screwing my way around just to have short-term pleasure. Joy? Let others have it.
I don’t need it do keep up with my obligations. And I will do them, well.
I will be the best, even if I don’t feel it.

Well, it isn’t very nice to know… is it? But you needn’t worry: I can put up with a pretty picture-perfect everyday show. For as long as it takes.
At least it’s not lying to myself.

I miss you.
I love you.
You saved me without even knowing; but where the hell are you now?


just doesn't go with living in society.

I'm sorry sweetie, but I'm not sorry at all. If I'd make plans to hang out with a narcissistic bitch, I'd stick to my bathroom mirror.


If, hypothetically speaking, you'd go from C to B, being A, wouldn't that qualify as going backwards? Quid iuris?


(está) Perto

Não chores aos pés do leito onde morro
Se em Ser (eu fui) chama qu’enlutou
As luas se sucedem
E da Primavera de nascer o Outono ceifou

Ontem fui caule verdejante,
da brisa
Neste grão de areia dou minha folha ao Cais de beber
Se vou findar na praia
Podiam certas, as ondas, me vir empurrar

E arrasta-me, ò Dor do Tempo
Que só partindo Homem te vou perceber
As luas se sucedem
E lento, o compasso, não deixa de mim sair

Em despedir-me corto o fio da Laranja
Que foi o Sol onde ceguei
Da Luz em sangue concebida
Jorram mil perfumes
Do ventre onde, Encarnado, nasci

O solo me engole
Por murmúrios prantos que não sabem desfolhar
Mas antes se dissolvem
Quem chora, quem chora? Porquê preces tecer?

Os braços do amado onde ansiei terminar
Se arqueiam, quebrando ramos
E já mais não tenho repulsa em arrefecer...

Se a Terra sabe Amar (e a Mar)
A maresia que provo não me é estranha
O fim é, sobremaneira, Salgado
E, morrendo, escorro para o Sul

Em finando me devolvo
Trespassando atavismos
A quem, de mim, se fizer

O féretro não guarda memória,
De madrugada doença pareceu se esquecer
Que é salubre a vida
Em ciclos e fins do princípio viver.


There lie secrets
And spaces
And sorrowing graces

And people,
They seem to rely on the apparent image of perfection; on the picture-perfect photogenic smile, that we are so obviously forced into

Do my questions remain unanswered if all I do is ask the nude-eyed, blunt and clear as the day Truth?
(that is, if the days are ever clear and there are no multiple facets to the pristine lazurite coming between me and you).

Don’t let me go, please
If all I do is try to mend the broken pieces of your heart
that is altogether my
And keep my own of getting broken
Even if that is a totally misleading endeavour, and I am to be stuck with a sunken cost…

I fall and catch the repetitive tone of cliché, hovering around the living room (where you stand and SHRINK down to the final round, when eventually you’re caught and slashed to bits by it) and I hate sensing you, drowning by the trivial traits that outline our pending conversation
So, hush.
and let me take you through this journey that will be led in the dark, and in silence, and in mutual comprehension.

Why did you have to go… Why do I have to stay…

Why don’t I understand you and your frustrating rhetorical monologues
And why do I know you so well I don’t need words to put the way things are.

I love you entirely,
And I cannot part from your living memory, and move on.
I don’t want to, either.
And you saved me without even knowing
Although… my redeeming cure, nowadays, only seems to pull me down and keep me trapped to old prejudices… that keep me blinded and cold.


Sábado arrumo a casa

Sábado arrumo a casa
Que o sótão onde eu durmo mais não faz sentido.
Sábado arrumo a casa
Hoje é sexta-feira, e não te tenho em meus braços.
E hoje é o amanhã que adormeceu sem esperança
…e se esqueceu de acordar
(num sopro)

E quem precisa de versos se onde eu moro há Música
e sons infinitos, e clamores tão altos que só precisam do cair baixinho da chuva para serem ouvidos...

Sábado arrumo a casa
Que hoje é sexta-feira de madrugada.
E já faz mais de um segundo sem mais não te ver.

(e é Quinta, e é Quinta...
a quinta dos meus regaços escondidos,
onde semeio a vida e ofereço pasto à minha imaginação.)

It is

easier to cry and mourn a triviality than to stand tall and…
face your own mistakes.
live up to the consequences of your own actions
and simply realize that nothing you can do will ever change the fact that what you’ve done has caused irreparable damage to others.
It is.


Il y a

des raisons qui se surpassent, à maintes reprises.
Ne m'attendez pas, en vain...


Precisava mesmo de dizer isto

I'm not used to doing this kind of thing.
Writing plainly and without set purpose or edition seems both dull and fruitless.

But somehow, inside me, a metastatic urge to write has emerged. And grown.
And filtered my existence with words and dots and question marks and a bunch of orthographic an syllabic mumbo-jumbo altogether far too complicated and long to describe...

I miss you. I love you. But I will let go.
(and somehow, from the start of this all I knew it was the only way)

I was foolish...
When trying to conceal my sorrow with shallow interests and occupations, and numb my mind with restless sound and noise that only seemed to make me go
But now it's not like that anymore.
[hush, there enters another actor on the scene. And you stay back... and I'm sorry you'll disappear - I know that you will - but he doesn't even cast a shadow on your beautiful, epic pale figure, hovering magically by the side and gazing confidently to empower my anemic state of mind]
I was feeling so fine with my forced addiction
That I almost could linger on the feeling of never being able to find another you, in between rushes of drug through my veins...
I WAS SO HAPPY! I was so joyfully vain
I was so mercifully sin-free and light headed that it almost sickens me the disruption of my simple, insane and perfectly superficial nuissance d'être
(so, why did you have to come and wreck all of this with your systematic punctuation and wonderfully pitched voice and british humor and elegant walk, and moody days that evolve into beautiful, clear, cold, pristine confessional nights while smoking cigarettes and telling tales...).

I love our telekinetic introspections. I love the fact that I don't need to explain myself, but when I do you get everything so fully right I want to cry.
I love that you are my shadowy best friend.
I love that you are my lost brother
And my parallel
And my soul mate
And the only person in the World that can make me gasp with overflowing sensitivity, comprehension and concomitant immense knowledge.

But I hate your similarities with my vague, lost reflexion,
and I do hate your empathic psychoanalysis
and I hate your half-words (that I also love - the half that you keep to yourself)

I hate falling down and throwing the lunch tray down when I sense his breathing and that I only feel safe and reassured when you come and lend me a hand.
And I LOVE your mockery! And your enthusiasm, and your pain...

Does this mean I love you?
Not at all. It is too soon to say...

But I won't forget the other two others I left behind, one in a different life
The other perhaps across the ocean.
One is dead;
the other has never been so alive.

I am happy amidst my grazing and ever-appealing dark side...
And I do have love.
That's for sure!