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"golo" poems
Remate, chuta, golo! Quando o faço no meu quarto Ninguém admira É mentira! Admiro eu! Que fazes tu? Escreves remata e chuta Que é a mesma coisa? É? A lingua portuguesa é...loiça Isso era só para rimar? Nem rima bem E para que me críticas? Tu és eu Partilhamos o mesmo corpo O mesmo…. Lorpo? Isso nem é palavra! Para quem usou loiça antes Esta pelo menos rima Tu nem fazes um esforço Com essa mania de superioridade Tornas-te um destroço Por causa da tua inseguridade Eu pelo menos trabalho E faço sair palavras E se me apetece Rima uma com bugalho E a outra com larvas Agora vai-te embora Vai morrer Se te apetecer E deixa-me escrever 01/02/2018
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Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 8:11 AM UTC
GilCardoso
Não escrevo em paz
Remate, chuta, golo! Quando o faço no meu quarto Ninguém admira É mentira! Admiro eu! Que fazes tu? Escreves remata e chuta Que é a mesma coisa? É? A lingua portuguesa é...loiça Isso era só para rimar? Nem rima bem E para que me críticas? Tu és eu Partilhamos o mesmo corpo O mesmo…. Lorpo? Isso nem é palavra! Para quem usou loiça antes Esta pelo menos rima Tu nem fazes um esforço Com essa mania de superioridade Tornas-te um destroço Por causa da tua inseguridade Eu pelo menos trabalho E faço sair palavras E se me apetece Rima uma com bugalho E a outra com larvas Agora vai-te embora Vai morrer Se te apetecer E deixa-me escrever 01/02/2018
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I am going to set fire to every motel 6. The way that what happened there set fire to my brain. Because that fire is still burning and the smoke constantly drips down my throat. The few moments I remember from when my eyes were closed, my face pressed into the dingy comforter are constantly reeling in my mind, like videos on super 8 that make your mouth taste like bleach and I’m always praying that the fire will melt the film but it never does. In the videos I see The First One and his orange hair. I remember the way that its ginger began to drip into every scratch and every cut he made on me. but maybe the burning felt better than the initial puncture. In the videos, I see the pads of his fingertips skating over my skin. I remember feeling the sparks. Not the good kind of sparks, but the sinful ones. It felt like a dream at first, to finally have someone care enough to touch me. I see the flickers of the Carmel Haired’s rented Volkswagen. and I see the smoke signals that the Florida license plate set off in my head. like the receding hairline wasn’t enough like the GoLo parking lot wasn’t enough like watching my high school shrink in the rear view mirror wasn’t enough. I’ll never feel smaller than I did, laid on the bed with him towering over me. I am waiting for the day that I can reach into my head and wreck that super 8 projector. I want to be able to relocate the wildfire in my head to my heart. I want to be able to feel the projector crush under my combat boots. I want to feel like Debbie Harry. I want to feel like Lilly. I want to use the wildfire to destroy every motel 6 I don’t want any other teenaged girl to feel the way I did, only feeling worthy when held to a motel mattress by an older man’s hand.
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Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
hypnosispoet
the blazing sunset of a burning Motel 6
I am going to set fire to every motel 6. The way that what happened there set fire to my brain. Because that fire is still burning and the smoke constantly drips down my throat. The few moments I remember from when my eyes were closed, my face pressed into the dingy comforter are constantly reeling in my mind, like videos on super 8 that make your mouth taste like bleach and I’m always praying that the fire will melt the film but it never does. In the videos I see The First One and his orange hair. I remember the way that its ginger began to drip into every scratch and every cut he made on me. but maybe the burning felt better than the initial puncture. In the videos, I see the pads of his fingertips skating over my skin. I remember feeling the sparks. Not the good kind of sparks, but the sinful ones. It felt like a dream at first, to finally have someone care enough to touch me. I see the flickers of the Carmel Haired’s rented Volkswagen. and I see the smoke signals that the Florida license plate set off in my head. like the receding hairline wasn’t enough like the GoLo parking lot wasn’t enough like watching my high school shrink in the rear view mirror wasn’t enough. I’ll never feel smaller than I did, laid on the bed with him towering over me. I am waiting for the day that I can reach into my head and wreck that super 8 projector. I want to be able to relocate the wildfire in my head to my heart. I want to be able to feel the projector crush under my combat boots. I want to feel like Debbie Harry. I want to feel like Lilly. I want to use the wildfire to destroy every motel 6 I don’t want any other teenaged girl to feel the way I did, only feeling worthy when held to a motel mattress by an older man’s hand.
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