"fez" poems
MONKEY IN A RED FEZ DANCING TO ABBA
I watch the children play
on a sunny Sunday in Rotterdam
like a stereotypical alien
studying humans.
Their cries rise and fall
like seagulls as they swing
sea-sawing or blurring into one
on a brightly coloured turnstile.
A man looking
like a badly drawn cartoon
turns the handle slowly of
a broken down barrel *****
A monkey in a red fez
dances on the end of a chain.
The barrel ***** spews out
everything from Abba to Franz Lehar.
The decrepit old man
and even more decrepit monkey
appear as if they have
stepped out of another century.
I am far from home.
The day is dying.
I read from my battered book
Hamsun's HUNGER.
It's lurid cover torn
half hanging on/off.
The park deserted now
as night steals its colours.
The last words of
of this the final chapter
are lost to me
swallowed by the dark.
The barrel ***** peersists
the soundtrack to some forgotten film
The monkey red fez
fallen at its feet.
The monkey blissfully
asleep.
The music caught
entangled in branches and leaves.
I watch the yellow lights
blossom one by one
a silhouette of houses
like a stage set.
Houses like cut-out silhouettes
a stage set.
The last lines revealed
under a passing lamp
"...where the windows shone so
brightly in every home..."
I laugh at such
a coincidence.
Leave the book on the bench
for some other me
to discover
when the sun comes up.
And return
to my space ship.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 5:17 PM UTC
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
Your Uncle Fred
on Christmas Eve
at Gran’s house
when you were a kid
did the sand dance
wearing an old fashion
man’s striped nightgown
and a red fez
(he got that in Egypt
during WW2
Gran said)
and brown
open toed sandals
and Uncle Ed
turned the handle
of the windup gramophone
where an old
78rpm record
was playing
and there were
glasses of sherry
being consumed
and cigarettes being smoked
and you sat watching
clapping your hands
and Gran would get up
afterwards
and do her Can-Can
like she used to
as she young woman
on the stage
and Granddad sat there
quiet saying nothing
looking at
the people gathered
sipping his sherry
watching his wife
lifting her legs
her white fuzzy hair
going to and fro
as she moved
and you wanted
to have some sherry
but your mother said
no you have lemonade
little boys
don’t have sherry
so you sat
with your lemonade
watching Uncle Fred
and his dance
and the music coming
from the old gramophone
and the smell of sherry
and beer and cigarette smoke
and Uncle telling the adults
one of his old army jokes.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 5:26 AM UTC
Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or a chair,
or SQUAT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or HOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk
or TROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,
or COT,
The Akond of Swat?
When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T's and finish his I's
with a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or BLOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or PLOT,
At the Akond of Swat?
If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or SHOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Do his people **** in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
GAROTTE,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a JOT,
The Akond of Swat?
To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or WHAT,
For the Akond of Swat?
At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a LOT,
For the Akond of Swat?
Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,
or a DOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
SHALLOTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or Russ,
or a SCOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a GROTT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a ***
The Akond of Swat?
Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or ROT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a KNOT.
The Akond of Swat?
Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or NOT,
The Akond of Swat?
Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake
in a YACHT,
The Akond of Swat?
Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Akond of Swat?
3k
'Tis not with gilded sabres
That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue--
But, habited in mourning weeds,
Come marching from afar,
By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.
All mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
The banner of the Phenix,
The flag that loved the sky,
That scarce the wind dared wanton with,
It flew so proud and high--
Now leaves its place in battle-field,
And sweeps the ground in grief,
The bearer drags its glorious folds
Behind the fallen chief,
As mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Brave Aliatar led forward
A hundred Moors to go
To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.
On horseback went the gallant Moor,
That gallant band to lead;
And now his bier is at the gate,
From whence he pricked his steed.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;
They rushed upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;
They smote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote the warrior dead,
And broken, but not beaten, were
The gallant ranks he led.
Now mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,
How passionate her cries!
Her lover's wounds streamed not more free
Than that poor maiden's eyes.
Say, Love--for didst thou see her tears:
Oh, no! he drew more tight
The blinding fillet o'er his lids
To spare his eyes the sight.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Nor Zayda weeps him only,
But all that dwell between
The great Alhambra's palace walls
And springs of Albaicin.
The ladies weep the flower of knights,
The brave the bravest here;
The people weep a champion,
The Alcaydes a noble peer.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
2.9k
Mandrake the Magician
now you see him
and now you don't
you will marvel at this magic
while the villains won't
**** he is gone
or changed in an illusion
he can read your mind
and cause constant confusion
the bad guys will lose
crushed by his friend Lothar the King
the strongest man alive
wearing his fez and a golden ring
Mandrake waves his magic wand
to hypnotize the evildoers
while his lady the Princess Narda
applies the skewers
Theron, Hojo and Bradley the chief
keep him protected from harm
with Magnon, Lenore and Karma
at his home Xanadu keeping warm
the villains are many and rotten to the core
Cobra, Brass Monkey and evil Deleter
even the Enchantress Aleena must scurry
Ekardnam his twin in the mirror retreater
so you may try as you might
to remain evil and mean
but Mandrake and his crew
will make you come clean
Gomer LePoet ...
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC
Graças a Deus
Você deve agradecer a criação de Deus?
Como um ser humano humilde Estou sempre grato a tudo que meus olhos podem ver e minha mente pode ou não poder entender.
Vejo a vida como um presente muito precioso. Não me pergunte porquê, cada pessoa é que deve ver e abrir os olhos para todas as belezas da natureza, do universo.
A Criação de Deus é cheia de amor e carinho. O homem nunca vai ser melhor que nosso Senhor no espírito do verdadeiro amor. Seu Filho Jesus
morreu pelos nossos pecados.
Dias virão e a mortalidade permanecerá como o grande segredo para a espécie humana. Novas descobertas mostram o poder do Espírito Santo.
Como um verdadeiro crente eu vejo Deus como amigo, como uma luz que está sempre ligada, como o melhor arquiteto que planeou o mundo e fez isso de uma forma esplêndida.
Quando eu semeio sementes não consigo ver nada. Eu me preocupo com as sementes, coloco a água, trato tudo com carinho e acredito verdadeiramente que a época da colheita virá como uma recompensa. Deus deu tudo para o homem. A cada momento peço paz, o respeito e o amor verdadeiro por toda a criação de Deus.
Eu sou abençoado por me dedicar ao cultivo de uvas no Vale do Douro. Bendigo Deus pela minha família, amigos e por ter Deus todo o tempo na minha vida. Estou sempre grato por tudo o que rodeia no Espírito da criação de Deus.
Amor á natureza ao Universo, amando cada ser humano como Deus ama será o ideal de toda a criação.
Deus abençoe a todos
Victor Marques
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
That time we went to Fez
and you said
it's like Biblical times
all these fecking donkeys
and camels and people
dressed like Jesus
I said to Miriam
so it was my first time
and we had to leave
the vehicle outside
the gates of the city
she said
we were sitting
at the Moroccan bar
of the camp base
sipping cokes
and had French loaf
sandwiches on plates
beside us
but it was good
I said
and that mosque
I went in was great
I had to take off
my sandals mind you
but hey the site
inside was good
I didn't go in
but that market
was out of this world
she said
she sat on a stool
beside me sipping her coke
she had a pink tee shirt
and red shorts
-I loved red-
and bare feet
I looked at the feet
recalling mouthing
her toes that night
in Malaga after
the shower
at the camp base there
and well the rest followed
I bit into the French roll sandwich
lettuce
cheese
cold lamb meat
and some kind of pickle
those women wore
those black gown things
she said
could only see their eyes
I don't think I could wear
one of those
I like to be seen
and why bother
to wear make up
or wear something skimpy
if you've got one
of those on
she said
they don't I guess
that's their religion
I said
she bit into her French roll
and was silent
she smelt
of apples and hay
and I could have licked her
but we sat and ate
and thought of the beach
and moon and stars
and ***
if not too late.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
António teu nome,
Agricultor, vitivicultor.
Apaixonado pela terra,
Pelo Douro, pelos Montes.
Aquele amor que não se encerra,
Dorme na colina, na serra.
Colheu tristeza na Guerra Colonial,
Amou o Douro e Portugal.
Semeou a terra que alegrias lhe traria,
Amou seus filhos e sua esposa Maria.
Plantou videiras que olhavam o céu estrelado,
Fez vinho com amor imaculado.
As uvas são um amor para toda a vida,
Deus nos ama até na despedida.
Olhou para o Rio Douro eTua ,
E na memória de um povo com glória,
Com aquela lágrima que eu sinto agora.
Me conforto no horizonte duriense,
Hoje, amanhã e sempre.
Victor Marques
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 6:47 AM UTC
A nobreza de tua família, teus descendentes!
Fernando era teu nome, Deus te chamou...
Junto a água pura Deus te abençoou,
Os peixes estavam contentes,
Tua catedral resplandecente,
Santo do amor eterno e confiante.
A tua voz sagrada,
Em Pádua a vi idolatrada.
Teu túmulo que me fez chorar com amor,
Meu santo amigo, eterno confessor.
Contigo aprendi a ser humano e amigo,
Me deleito a orar contigo.
Rezo a Deus e busco tua sabedoria infinita,
Pois Deus a todos beatifica..
Victor Marques
Dec 14, 2009
Dec 14, 2009 at 8:11 AM UTC
O Emigrante Português
Partes e deixas tua terra Natal,
O teu mundo é Portugal.
Deixas família também,
Partes sem ninguém.
Emigrante meu descendente,
És sempre um navegante,
Todos se orgulham de ser Português,
Feitos heróicos que seu povo fez.
Trabalhas noite e dia,
A tua revolta se esvazia.
Por estranha que até pareça,
O lume da fogueira que te aqueça.
Esforço e muito suor,
Vaso cheio de amor,
Lágrimas que alguém chora,
Saudades que não vão embora.
Victor Marques
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 10:50 AM UTC
A Tua última vindima
A vindima é colheita eterna do nosso amado Deus.
O vinho é o fruto delicioso que exalta e conforta,
A uva manjar que na videira brota.
A Cepa fortalece com amor,
Poda de seu podador.
Frio e calor a videira recebe,
Como paga de quem nada deve.
Vinho doce e verde na colheita,
Maduro que videira enfeita.
Deus fez engenhosa prensa,
Touriga nacional casta mansa.
Os bagos são espremidos com pudor,
Fruto de cansaço e tanto labor.
Vinho feito pelo homem e mulher,
Vinho bebido por quem quer.
Victor Marques
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
Taxi Ride
‘Hop on.’ says The Fez
‘There’s no stairs.’ Sleepy eyed dry mouth.
‘Tug the tassel and swing.’
I tugged the tassel and swung and Whoosh!
Stars distant below,
velvet and silk far behind
ochre stretches indigo
on the jasmine zephyr.
Ancient tombs **** past,
dry walled cities hidden in dust.
Will I see my dinner?
The sun hisses, the moon stretches
spilling onto the onyx sea.
‘Where to?’ Fez says
‘It’s your ride’ I shrug.
‘Maybe an ex, or your boss.’
‘Nah, that would be a waste.’
‘How about the Jungle or The World’s Roof?’
Restless I turn and say
‘Just home will do’
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 6:54 AM UTC
Hoje sinto que aquela bola de sabão existe!
É uma bola de verdade, leve e livre, pelo vento,
Sente-se os sons das palavras, que expeliste,
Sentiu-se aqui o timbre, presente do alento!
O longo curso, no horizonte dessa montanha,
Que um dia essa bola quis seguir, sente-se aqui!
Brilham olhares atentos à noite, agora estranha,
O olhar de bolas voando vê-se agora até daqui!
Desperta solto e livre o sol de medo dos ventos,
Dispersa cores cinza, que o habitaram por tempos,
Ouvem-se desejos de liberdade, nestes momentos,
Quem sabe agora, o tom dos seus passatempos?
Não vejo os Invernos, nem se sente o tom do inferno,
Plana sobre a linda natureza um cheiro aflito e difuso,
Que sonho teve o vento, que te levou e trouxe, recluso!
Voa-as pelos *** e nem sabes mais a forma do parafuso!
Os círculos controversos do prender da abertura das portas,
Sustentam como metal idêntico as formas do pensamento,
Não importa ser bola de sabão e voar ao saber do vento,
Foi disposição para soltar amarras e viver o que hoje adoras!
O homem fez-se fora e a mulher vê-se agora, ambos cintilantes,
Todos os medos e costumes, já doentios, na hora do descanso,
Quando à noite no silêncio, os medos dos sons são abundantes,
Fogem sorridentes porque mesmo carentes têm seu descanso!
Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.09.18.02.23
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 8:36 AM UTC
Anticipation tiptoes from table to table.
My Jelly Roll Soul
Sets sail for Alice’s rabbit hole.
In front of a hushed, hip crowd,
The music condenses into a scarlet cloud,
And originality speaks aloud.
A trumpet sounds,
A subway car rumbles underground,
Signaling all the cool cats
That it’s time to get down.
A virtuoso teases black and white keys,
Shaping notes with subtle expertise.
The closest I’ve ever seen, man come to mastering machine.
Slowing the frenzied, fractured step of the East Village above,
To E’s. Legato ease.
Optional Z’s
Leave many without sleep,
For who could snooze
At times like these?
The alto-sax
Is bending C’s!
Just listen in, on that wailing bassoon,
Who howls to the moon.
It might be noon,
Up there.
But that’s up a flight of stairs,
And I’m enjoying my jazzy state of affairs.
There will always be time for Nostalgia in Times Square.
Feb 16, 2011
Feb 16, 2011 at 2:57 PM UTC
Talk to me, talk to me of Old St. Nick
Talk to me of Sinterclaus
Of Mikulas, Pere Noel, or Babbo Natale
Talk to me of candles, christingle and a silent night
Talk to me of crackers, carols and calamities
Talk to me of snow, sleighs, and stars
Talk to me of Christmas cards, wrapping paper
Talk to me of gold, old spice and mice
Talk to me of icing, icicles
igloos, ivy
Holly
Oh sweet Hollie
Tots of Drambuie
Marmalade and toast
Talk to me of Philip Scholfield
Carols From Kings
Mary Poppins
Scrooge
Festive films
Radio Times
And things that are too pretty
Lights, nights
Hark, Dark
barking dogs
tinsel
Tinsel Town
Wolves at the door
Salvation Army playing once more
Talk to me
Talk to me
Cream Crackers, cheese
Frosty mornings, old knees
Talk to me of snow covered alpine forests
Gateaux
Cherries
walnuts and berries
Festive fun,
A seasonal run
Of All Gold telly
With a full belly
Farts, sprouts
Turkey that tastes just like chicken
Oh talk to me of
Terry Wogan
Rosh Jogan
Grogan Josh
Last minute deals
Black Friday
White Friday
And all the Cyber Mondays
Talk to me of
Happy Mondays
Dancing Bez
In a Festive Fez
Talk to me
Talk to me
Of Festive time
Late nights
Early mornings
Beer
Cheer
All in entertainment
Oh talk, TALK to me
Of hangovers,
sleep overs
gloves
mittens
and cute kittens
Oh talk to me of
fake Chanel
Faux Fur and underwear
Celvin Klein
Talk to me , Talk to me of
Jonah Lewie
Bony M
The Pogues
and all those rogues
Fairy tale of New York
Stop the Cavalry
Mary's Boy Child
And the
Spaceman who came riding by
Oh talk, Talk , Talk to me
of places, and spaces We all know
Christmas markets
Tesco, Aldi and John Lewis Adverts showing
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Christmas is coming
Chris
Oh talk to me
Oh talk to me of old St. Nick
Talk to me
Talk to me
Eggnog
Talk to me
Talk to me
Bah humbug
Talk to me
Talk to me
Happy Christmas
Dec 19, 2019
Dec 19, 2019 at 4:54 PM UTC
CORDEL TROVADO
*
Antonio Cabral Filho - Rj
*
Meu bisavô João Cabral
Padrasto do meu avô,
Não sabe quanto é legal
Me orgulhar de quem eu sou.
*
Meu avô “ José Cabral “
É José Pedro da Silva,
Mas acabou como tal
Pelas graças da mãe diva.
*
Meu pai honra meu avô,
São CABRAIS de alto renome.
Seus legados dão valor
A quem tem Cabral no nome.
*
ANTONIO CABRAL DA SILVA,
Que no Cavaco dedilha,
Espero que a lira sirva
De base na redondilha.
*
ANTONIO CABRAL é homem,
Pois homem tem que ser homem.
Quem não tem verve de ANTONIO,
Tire o Cabral do seu nome.
*
Sou ANTONIO CABRAL FILHO,
Que em vossa presença emigra;
Do pinto que não quer milho
João Cabral que lho diga.
*
Sei que não fez porque qui-lo,
Mas o Antonio Cabral,
Assim, solteiro, sem FILHO,
Não sou eu nem o LEGAL.
*
Todo CABRAL é parente,
Com raízes além mar,
Tem cara de boa gente,
Mas é bom não descuidar...
*
Antonio fui batizado
Por glória da devoção,
Mas CABRAL é meu legado
Pela pura tradição.
*
Aquele que nasce ANTONIO
Não se dobra pelo cobre,
Pois vem de filão idôneo
E tem espírito nobre.
***
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
Look at that naughty monkey
with that tin cup in his hand
he shakes it with small change inside
for his master the ***** grinder by his side
He gibbers and on a cigar he smokes
ladies legs as they pass he does stroke
he bites if you don't put something in his tin
for he knows with no food he will get thin
His red waistcoat and fez
well, they have seen better days
yet he is loyal to his master
as his buddy grinds away
His mischief has no bounds
as he bangs his cup on the ground
he is a crowd pleaser
and a great money reviler
this monkey with his ***** grinder
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
Marcas de uma noite escura
E uma perspectiva ferida
Pela agulhas de minha frieza
Chegaram a você
E a face que foi me dada
Está jogada em alguma esquina
Com impressões de olhares inferiores
Como faces de um bloco de notas
Eu vou me virando
Vou me virando
Essas alternâncias de oportunidades
São as ultimas coisas que eu queria ver
E com um grito sufocante eu admito
Eu sempre errei
Eu errei
E essa dor despertante
É uma especie de verdade que muda totalmente o caráter
Me fez perceber as paredes se erguendo
No único objetivo que eu foquei
Todas essas maneiras autodestrutivas
Todas essas inclinações para o fundo do poço
E agora eu sei, elas tem justificativas
E eu sei
Acusado de assassinatos impiedosos
Mas não sou que sou "um com a dor"
Que fui forçado a parar na beira da estrada
Porque é de lá que vim
E é para lá que sempre voltarei
Mas, meu deus
Lá é tão distante
E parece que acidentes agora ocorrem por lá
E todos os outros lugares
São cheios e me sufocam
Me sufocam
E eu sou tão inútil que a unica coisa que consigo pensar
É em uma mudança dos tecidos dos tempo
É eu sei
Sou um inútil
E agora sinto como se minha face
Não tivesse nenhuma ligação com os meus pés
E o meu corpo agora fica
Rolando em coisas que não eu não consigo acreditar
Mas eu tentei
Eu realmente tentei
Você sabe que eu tentei
Realmente tentei
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
Nunca achei que seria tão fácil me vendar
Mas olhando para trás
Havia tantas coisas que não gostaria de ver
E talvez graças a essa cegueira, lembrar não me faz sofrer
Apenas buscar um abraço e tentar esquecer
Ver o mundo desaparecer
Talvez viver de promessas e sonhos foi o que nós fez perder
E todo esses pedregulhos viraram aterros
Para os próximos sonhos
Que podem se tornar verdadeiros
E não apenas uma moldura sem fotografia
Que decora a mobília de um cômodo sem a pintura do apego
E deixar o tempo passar seja o melhor que tenho a fazer
Ele revigora e maquia cicatrizes que nem podemos ver
Por isso talvez, mesmo sem historias para contar
Acho que deveria me entregar
Para que ele me leve ao lugar mais distante de ti
Sempre achei que um pouco de nós faria bem
O que dizer? nunca fui muito bom em escolher
Mas talvez se nós reencontrarmos em alguns anos quais quer
Podemos perceber que o jogo nunca terminou
Apenas virou, e agora estamos em times diferentes
Sempre se esbarrando e se machucando
Mas nunca se cumprimentando
Talvez devesse ter visto de longe
Ou não ter me iludido tanto
E saber que fomos
Destinados a fingir
Viver de falsas proximidades e carícias geladas
E nunca de ternura nos abraços ou paixão nos beijos
Destinados a fingir
Uma paixão idiota
Que mais parecia um cigarro
Que logo se transforma em fumaça
E no vento para o mundo se esvai
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 7:48 PM UTC
Love, is like a clock.
My first love ended with four knocks.
His soul transfers.
Yet, he still knows all the answers.
He saves me time after time.
His blue box is a sign.
Though you don't know if it's true.
You, may have just seen Doctor Who.
Ignorant you are to make fun of his bowtie.
All his tales are true, never lies.
Everyone wants to know what he used to be.
But all he replies is follow me.
Through the vortex, time passes fast.
And this journey to the end of my life, will always last.
The Doctor, never excepts a word in return.
With every trip, the more I learn.
The galaxy is unknown to me and you.
But is explored by Doctor Who.
Protecting our world and lands a far.
The Doctor is my wish from a shooting star.
You can see him, if you just think.
And remember, just not to blink.
Angels, lurk behind turned backs.
Their hands, covering their faces, ashamed of what they lack.
Creatures from all across the land.
I see double, standing side by side on the sand.
Monsters are real he says...
As he puts on his fez.
The padorica has been unlocked.
And then closed and stopped.
The Doctor, the protecter of galaxies.
Is the only person I wish to see.
On my doorstep in the middle of the night.
To travel through time, and save the light.
Jan 26, 2011
Jan 26, 2011 at 12:15 PM UTC
The Moroccan sun was hot
and the sands
of the beach
down from the base camp
were warm
beneath your feet
as Mamie and you
took a walk
looking seaward
then skyward
the sounds
from the base camp
becoming faded
background buzz
and she said
those toilets are a disgrace
two bricks
over a hole
in the ground
and after a few drinks
one stands there
swaying fearing
to fall in
yes not quite up
to the 5 star hotel standard
you said
but this is a camping trip
across half of Europe
and beyond
not some top notch
holiday in the swanky
middle class arena
but still
she moaned
trying to balance
on two bricks
is no mean trick
you sensed her hand
hold yours
her skin warm
sticking to your skin
her fingers moving
between yours
and you recalled
the night just gone
while the guy
you shared the tent with
had gone on a trip
to Fez
you and she
kissed and embraced
and did the business
while outside
you could hear
the voices
of others
as they passed by
or music played on guitars
from the guys
in the bar
up a small way
as you both lay
on your backs
staring at the blue top
of the tent
the heat of the sun
pushed through
and the bodies wet
with sweat
and she put
a hand on your belly
and rubbed
in a circular motion
as far away
you heard
the sway
and run
of the Mediterranean sea
and nearby voices
and their laughter
and gossip
as you and she
kissed
lip to hot lip.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 2:40 AM UTC
Sabe aquela gota gelada durante o banho quente?
Então, nós acreditamos que pela intensidade que a água quente vem uma simples gota fria não causará incomodo algum
É nesse momento que nós entramos embaixo do chuveiro e vemos que o que pensavamos daquela gota é totalmente equivocado pois ela se torna a pior coisa do nosso banho
A distância pode ser vista da mesma forma que aquela gota fria
Pois nós acreditamos que pela intensidade do sentimento que temos por aquela pessoa a distancia não mudará isso, e é aí que nós percebemos que sim, ela consegue mudar esse sentimento.
O nosso afastamento me fez ver que as coisas não são mais como antes
O nosso amor deu alguns passos para trás
Os nossos planos se transformaram em nossas ilusões
Nossas lembranças se transformaram em sofrimento
E sim, eu só lamento, sei que as coisas do destino não tem saída
E sei que devemos olhar pra frente e seguir nossas vidas!
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 11:02 PM UTC